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THE 



YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



BY 



ROBERT FOLKSTONE WILLIAMS, 

AUTHOR OF " SHAKSPEARE ; AND HIS FRIENDS," "THE 
SECRET PASSION," ETC. 



"^ 



All the world's a stage, 
And the men and women merely players. 
They have their exits and their entrances. 
And one man in his time plays many parts. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Triumph, my Britain ! thou hast one to show 
To whom all scenes of Europe homage own. 

Ben Jonson. 



/> fHjila&elpfyia: 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 



T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, 

HAVE JUST PUBLISHED A NEW AND BEAUTIFUL EDITION OF THE 

CELEBR-A-TED 

SHAKSPEAEE NOVELS. 



BY 



ROBERT FOLKSTONE WILLIAMS. 

Each one being issued complete in a large octavo volume, neatly 
done up in paper covers. The following are the names of these cel- 
ebrated works: 

I. 

THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 

PRICE ONE DOLLAR, 
II. 

SHAKSPEAEE AND HIS FRIENDS. 

PRICE ONE DOLLAR. 
III. 

THE SECRET PASSION. 

PRICE ONE DOLLAR. 



Copies of either of the above works will be sent to any one, to any 
place, free of postage, on receipt by us of One Dollar; or a com- 
plete set, of the three works, will be sent to any one, free of postage, 
on receipt by us of Three Dollars. 

Address all orders and remittances to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa., 
And they will receive immediate and prompt attention. 



% 



<? 3-T 






THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



CHAPTER I. 

AH was this Land ful filled of Faerie, 
The Elf-Quene with hire jolie company 
Daunsed full oft in many a grene mede, 
This was the old opinion, as 1 rede. 

Chaucer. 

The vallies rang with their delicious strains, 

And pleasure reveled on those happy plains. 

Chalkhill. 

What if my lordinge doo chaunce for to miss me? 
The worst that can happen his cudgel will kiss 
me. 
Tragicall Comedte of Apius and Virginia. 

Oh ! what a beauteous night was that 
time-honored twenty-third of April, in the 
year of our Lord one thousand five hundred 
ind sixty-four ! The air was clear as any 
crystal, and the wind just shaking the fra- 
grance from the young blossoms, as it 
swept along to make music in the fresh 
leaves of the tall trees, did create such har- 
mony and sweetness therein, that nothing 
could have appeared so delectable, save the 
star-best added sky above, wherein the lady 
moon was seen to glide with so silvery a 
brightness that the sapphire heavens, the 
flowery earth, and the sparkling water, 
were appareled in one mantle of the deli- 
catest light. Peradventure so fair a night 
hath never been seen before or since ; yet, 
of such bountiful beauty as it v< r as through- 
out, there was one spot wherein its ex- 
quisite rare attractions were heaped to- 
gether with so prodigal a hand, that the 
place, for the exceeding pleasantness of 
its aspect, must have been like unto thaf 



famous garden of Paradise, that held out 
first parents in their primitive innocency 
and happiness. 

It was a low meadow field, marked by 
sundry declivities and inequalities, where- 
on a goodly show of all manner of spring 
flowers were sleeping in the moonlight, 
even to the very waves of that right famous 
river the Avon, which was flowing along 
in all its refreshing loveliness, at its margin. 
Trees were here and there of divers kinds, 
garmented in their newest livery of green ; 
a row of alders, a clump of beeches, a soli- 
tary oak, a shady- coppice, were stretching 
far and wide in one direction ; and hedges 
of hawthorn and elder, interspersed with 
crab, wild plum, and towering elms, would 
intersect the country in others. Close at 
hand was the town of Stratford, with the 
tall spire of the church, and the quaint 
eaves of the houses distinctly visible. Here 
stood the mansion of one of its persons of 
worship. There the more modest dwelling 
of an industrious yeoman. At one place 
was the cottage of the sturdy laborer ; in 
another the tenement of the honest miller ; 
whilst, as the eye stretched out to the dis- 
tance, other buildings might be faiutly seen 
which doubtless marked the situation of the 
neighboring villages. 

But, although signs of habitation were 
thus plentiful, of man or woman not one 
was there in sight ; for this especial reason, 
all manner of honest folk had laid them 
down to sleep long since. Little could be 
seen of live things, excepting perchance a 
water-rat swimming upon the Avon, or 
mayhap, a fold of sheep on the adjoining 
(9) 



10 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



form ; or heard, save the tinkle of the 
sheep-bells, or the bark of the shepherd's 
dog, occasionally responded to by some dog 
afar off; or the rushing of the water at the 
mill-wheel, or the croaking of the frogs 
among the rushes, or the hooting of an owl 
as she passed by, intent on a mousing expe- 
dition to the nearest barn ; and these sounds 
made as excellent sweet music as ever 
poet did delight to hear. Certes this was 
just such a scene, and these the very pro- 
perest accompaniments for awakening in 
the heart that profound sympathy with na- 
ture which the few to whom such feeling 
is familiar give expression to, in sentiments 
that partake of the same beauty and immor- 
tality as the source whence they spring. 
All at once a new and unfamiliar sound 
came floating upon the air. It was faint 
and indistinct, a mere murmur ; yet music- 
ally soft and low. Gradually it grew upon 
the ear, as a blossom opening to the sun- 
shine. A gentle harmony became distin- 
guishable ; then came tones of such ex- 
quisite melodiousness, it was ravishing to 
listen to them. At last voices, seeming 
in some number, were readily heard, and 
then, words becoming audible, they were at 
*ast distinctly repeated in the following 
order : 

" We come from the violet's azure cells, 
We come from the cowslip's golden bells, 
From the hawthorn's odorous bloom we fly ; 
From the dewy eaves 
Of the primrose leaves, 
From the daisy's blushing buds we hie ; 
And fill the air with sounds and sights 

As though to earth all heaven was streaming, 
More sweet than lover's stolen delights, 

More bright than aught loved maid is dream- 
ing. 
We come from the snowdrop's pallid head, 
We come from the heather's lowly bed, 
From the wild bee's haunt and the wood-lark's 
home ; 

From the grassy couch 
Where the lev'rets crouch, 
And the coney hides ; — we come ! we come !" 

Whilst this roundelay was being sung, 
there appeared moving in the atmosphere, 
all manner of bright colors, like unto a 
goodly rainbow in the heavens, or a shower 
of all the delicatest flowers upon the earth, 
and presently forms could be distinctly 
traced amongst them ; and as they ap- 
proached the banks of the river, it was seen 
that they were crowds of tiny beings, of 
shape as beautiful as ever the eye looked 
on ; garmented very daintily in what seem- 
ed to be blossoms of divers kinds and colors. 
Their complexions were marvelous fair; 
heir hair of a bright golden hue, curling 



very prettily, decorated with exceeding 
small wreaths, or, mayhap, a dainty sweet 
flower worn as a helmet ; and they floated 
on the air with infinite ease in every possi- 
ble position ; some plunging head down- 
wards ; and others, as it were, reclining 
backwards, looking to observe who came 
after them. On they came, as countless as 
the stars ; and in the centre was one, round 
whom the rest were thronging with a won- 
derful show of love and reverence ; and she 
reclined in a car, carved of pearl that seem- 
to be as light as a gossamer, was shaped 
like a shell, and drawn by two bright-wing- 
ed butterflies. Her face was as lovely as 
the morning light, and on her brows she 
wore a coronal of jasmine studded with 
fresh dew drops. A scarf of rose color oi 
a singular fine fabric, the material whereot 
had doubtless been stolen from the silk- 
worm's web, was tied from the shoulder to 
the hip, where it was fastened in a bow 
over a close vest of a sapphire hue, richly 
ornamented with gold leaves ; and the rest 
of her appareling was of the like pretty fan- 
tasy. Scarcely had this exquisite fair crea- 
ture and her companions alighted on the 
enameled banks of the river, and the voices 
had become hushed into an indistinct mur- 
mur of pleasure at finding themselves at 
their journey's end, when the air was again 
filled with the same wondrous harmonies 
and delicate words, that had there been cre- 
ated so recently ; but the voices now were 
of a deeper tone. 

Presently there appeared, hovering about, 
a vast crowd of similar little beings as 
those that had a moment since alighted on 
the ground, only these were of a more mas- 
culine aspect, and garmented in hose* and 
doublet, fitting tight to the body, of divers 
delicate colors, wearing famous pretty 
feathers in their caps, mayhap filched from 
the small birds ; and some had quivers of 
arrows at their backs. Some wore a smart 
rapier, of at least the length of a tailor's 
needle ; and many carried spears of a mar- 
velous fine point and thinness. -These 
were floating on the air in all manner of 
picturesque attitudes, save one who sat ia 
a fair car of gold, drawn by a pair of gi 
gantic dragon-flies, attended by a company 
who appeared to act as a guard of honor. 
He wore a crown on his head, and a rapier 
at his side, and a purple robe of fine velvet, 
richly embroidered with stars, over his vest. 
Perpetual youth sat smiling on his counte- 
nance, and his limbs were of so graceful a 
shape, my poor words have not the cunning 
to describe it. As this assembly descended 
to join the other, a chc rus of mutual coi* 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



11 



gratulation arose, whereof the burthen of 
■Jie sylphs was, " Hail Oberon !" and that 
of the others, "Hail Titania '" — showing 
hat those two were the king and queen of 
"airie, — which seemed to be sung with such 
wonderful joy and so sweet a spirit, that it 
was exquisite to hear beyond all conceiv- 
ing. 

King Oberon having stepped from his 
car, advanced to that of his queen close by, 
and with a very excellent courtesy, did 
hand the fair Titania out, perchance to 
tread a measure on the verdant mead ; 
whereupon their discourse ran thus : 

" Light of my life, and life of all my joy !" 
rapturously exclaimed the fairy king. 
" In whose fair eyes, the fountains of my bliss, 
My soul drinks sweeter and more delicate 

draughts 
Than flowers or fruits provide ; say with what 

aim, 
For well I know some hidden purpose lies 
Within the covert of thy fantasy, 
Have I been summoned with my company 
From the deep dingle in the emerald wood, 
Where, 'mid the tangled roots and gnarled 

boughs 
Of reverential oaks and hoary pines, 
With our rude mirth we rouse the dappled deer 
Or chase the owlets to their dark retreats." 
" And what wouldst give to know 1" 
asked Titania, with a pretty seriousness. 

" What give, sweetheart 1" replied he. 
*' How like a very woman art thou grown ! 
Thou hast some pretty meaning in the act, 
Some quaint device, mayhap some harmless 

jest, 
Whereby the rosy hollows of thy cheek 
Shall be arrayed with all thy fairest smiles, 
To bear glad witness how man's wiser mind 
Can by a woman's wit be set at nought. 
And for the secret thou'lt a bargain make, 
Which having ratified, the secret's told ; 
And in its nothingness must lie the jest, 
And in its point thy triumph." 

" Tush, my lord !" 
cried his fair companion, half turning from him. 
" Art thou so little curious as this 1 
Nay, by the trembling beam that leaves the 

skies 
To steal soft kisses from the yielding wave, 
I'll hie me hence and tell thee not at all." 
" In pity say not so !" said he. 

" I'll say and do !" 
answered the other with a famous show of re- 
solution. 
" Seem'st thou not more inclined to learn the 

drift 
Of why on such a night of all the year, 
1 bade thee hasten to this favored spot." 

" Then am I curious to such excess," ob- 
served her lord, 
■ As passeth all conceiving. I prithee say 
What was thy purpose. Tell it straight, 



For my impatience is so powerful 
As will endure no hindrance." 

"" O' my word !" cried Titania, 
" Thy nature grows impatient of a sudden. 
Fie on thee, my lord ! Dost mock me so ! 
With such conceits dost think a woman caugh 
Who for a curious humor hath been famed, 
And therefore knoweth how it shows itself? 
Hadst thou a secret, I would never rest 
A minute, nay, a moment of the hour, 
Till I became its mistress. I would watch 
All fittest opportunities to ply 
The searchingest questions ever spoke ; 
And at thy rising and thy lying down. 
The hunt, the walk, the banquet or the dance , 
In brief, in every time and ev'ry place, 
I'd importune thee with such earnestness, 
And in a way so lovingly withal, 
Thou couldst not hold it from me if thou 

wouldst ; 
Or shouldst thou still attempt to keep it hid, 
Then would I venture close to where it hides, 
And with sweet force dislodge it from thy lips." 
" Then thus such sweet enforcement I em- 
ploy." 

Thereupon his elfin majesty very gallant- 
ly did salute his lovely queen, the which 
she received as if in no way inclined to an- 
ger, as may be supposed ; and then they, 
saying manifold loving pleasantries unto 
each other, walked to were there was a 
banqueting table, set out for them, with all 
manner of tempting delicates, and sat them- 
selves down, each in a sort of throne ; for 
the reader must be made aware, that whilst 
the king and queen of Fairie were convers- 
ing as hath been described, there were 
raised upon the green sward by their attend- 
ants, a royal canopy of crimson silk and 
gold, and a goodly display of most delecta- 
ble cheer ; and hundreds of the little people 
were running about putting the things in 
order, whilst groups of beautiful sylphs 
were receiving notable sweet courtesies 
from tueir elfin gallants ; some reclining 
their graceful figures on the delicate grass, 
and others standing up as if preparing for 
the dance ; and in another place, there 
were seen a score or so of musicians, 
tuning of their records, theorbos, citterns 
harps, sackbuts, and the like choice instru- 
ments. Presently the queen gave the sign 
for them to begin their revels, and then the 
music struck up a most ravishing minstrel- 
sy ; the dancers commenced treading a 
measure with such infinite grace as hath 
never been visible to mortal eyes, and the 
rest were disporting of themselves in all 
parts of the meadow, laughing, jesting, 
feasting and making merry with such a 
prodigality of happiness as dull mortality 
hath no knowledge of. Some were a hunt* 



12 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



ing of the field-mice into their holes, or 
driving the leaping frogs into the river, with 
a famous hallooing and admirable cheerful 
noise ; others of the merry elves Wfe amu- 
sing of themselves by jumping ^^r the 
toadstools that grew thereabouts, and may- 
hap one, not being so good a leaper as his 
fellows, would jump clean into one of these 
dry fungous plants, to the near smothering 
of himself in its dust, and choking of his 
companions with laughter. Then some of 
the sylphs, who were not of the dancers, 
were engaged in making wreaths of the 
delicatest blossoms in season, either for 
those they affected of the other sex, or for 
their own wear. Others were putting to- 
pather a true-love posie. Here and there 
might be seer a couple, apart from the rest, 
uy the ex.ju>>te earnestness of their coun- 
tenances, dt faring themselves to be em- 
ployed in such delectable manner as showed 
there was no lack of affectionateness be- 
twixt them ; and a company of others had 
got in the midst of them an elf of a most 
jocund spirit, known to divers by the sever- 
al names of Puck, Robin Goodfellow, and 
Will-o'-the-Wisp, who, as was evident from 
their faces, with his droll jests and diverting 
tricks, kept them in a constant humor of 
laughing. Here would be one mischievous 
elf running after a sylph with a huge worm, 
which it was manifest she liked not the 
looks of ; and there another pelting a 
companion with cowslips, who was making 
ready to fling at him with a like missile. 
Everywhere there was the appearance of 
the very absolutest free-heartedness ; not a 
grave face was to be seen, not a sigh was 
to be heard. 

Now there were seen amongst them such 
abundance of pleasant pastime, as was quite 
a marvel to behold, in the which the tricksy 
Will-o-the-Wisp, or Puck, or Robin Good- 
fellow, as he was variously called, did ap- 
pear to enjoy himself to the very bent of his 
humor. In the meanwhile Titania and 
Oberon moved from the banquet, and were 
soon pleasantly engaged treading of a 
measure to the delicatest music ever known. 
Ml of a sudden as they were disporting of 
themselves, every one of them very merrily, 
there came one hastening from the other 
end of the meadow, crying out something, 
the which as soon as it was heard, banquet, 
canopy, dancers, musicians, and all the fairy 
world disappeared in the twinkling of an 
sye, and of that gallant company no vestige 
now remained. The blades of the young 
■"-ass, unharmed by the light footfalls of the I 
jay dancers, bent t-> the midnight wind, j 
«*he frogs came needing from the rushes 1 



and the timid water-rat ventureu *o put her 
head out of the covered hole beneath the 
river's bank, wherein she had made her 
home. 

" It be woundy cold o' nights, still dame, 
for all it be getting so nigh unto the flowery 
month of May," exclaimed an awkward var- 
let, looking to be something betwixt man 
and boy, and dressed in a humble suit of 
russet, famously worn and soiled, that fitted 
him not at all, as, carrying of a huge lan- 
thorn with an outstretched arm before him. 
he seemed to be guiding of a short stout 
woman, well wrapped up in a serviceable 
cloak and muffler, who bent her steps 
through the field towards the neighboring 
town. 

" Ay, it be cold enough, out of all doubt,'' 
replied his companion, in a quick thick 
voice, half swallowed in her muffler, as she 
endeavored to keep as near as possible tc 
his heels. " Yet do I remember me a colder 
night than this, two years ago this very 
day." 

" Odd zooks ! was it so indeed ?" asked 
the other in a tone of monstrous won- 
dering. 

" Ay, that was it, Humphrey," replied the 
woman with impressive earnestness. " That 
night I had laid me down to rest my weary 
bones, and nigh unto midnight I had got me 
into the comfortablest slumber weary body 
ever had, when there came at the gate so 
huge a noise, I had like to have been fright- 
ened out of my sleep and my wits too. I 
dressed me in a presently, wondering who 
could be a sending at that time, not expect- 
ing to hear from Mistress Hathaway, for a 
month to come, nor from Dame Hart, for a 
full week ; when looking out from the lattice 
I spied a horseman, in a cloak that swept 
down close upon his horse's heels, who, in a 
terrible high voice, bade me come quick, for 
life and death depended on my speed. 
Thereupon, as may be suppposed of me, I 
made all convenient haste in my appareling 
— for thou knowest, Humphrey, I like to 
keep none waiting." 

" O my life, Gammer Lambswool,'' ex- 
claimed the other drily, "kept you not 
me an hour by the clock, ere I got sight of 
you, I know not what waiting means." 

" Nay, nay, — thou couldst not have been 
at the gate so long as that," replied the old 
woman ; " for ere thou badst well knocked 
twice, I called to thee from the lattice." 

"■So God me save," cried out Humphrey, 
with wonderful emphasis, " I knocked some 
scores of times — to say nought of the mon- 
strous bawling I kept up, loud enougn to 
wake the seven sleepers : and I doubt no! 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



13 



at all, master will give me a taste of the 
cudgel for having tarried so long." 

"He shall do thee no such unkind office, 
be assured," said Gammer Lambswool, 
u for J will take care to bear thee blameless 
in the matter. But to return to what I was 
a saying," added she, too glad at having a 
listener, to let him off without the whole story. 
" On coming to the gate, the stranger was 
for having me mount upon a pillion behind 
him, which I liked not at first : but upon 
his pressing the emergency of the case, 
and placing a gold piece in my hand, I 
made no more to do — for I like not appear- 
ing over scrupulous in matters of jeopardy, 
tie more especially when an honest wager 
:js to be gained by it. T had scarce got my 
seat when the stranger said he must needs 
blind-fold me, the which I liked less than 
the other ; but upon his assuring me I 
should suffer no harm, and placing another 
gold piece in my hand, I suffered it to be 
done, for thinks I, mayhap, the occasion re- 
quireth secresy ; and I oft had a huge sus- 
picion there was no necessity for me to 
seem to know more than those who required 
my aid, would allow ; if so be they paid me 
well for holding of^my curiousness." 

" Here be a villainous thick cloud about 
to cover up the moon, and be hanged to 
it !" exclaimed her companion in a tone of 
vexation, as, with a face waxing marvelous- 
ly fearful, he watched the approach of a 
broad black cloud spreading over the sky. 
u Make more speed I pray you, good Gam- 
mer, else we shall be left in the dark before 
we haye got out of this field, which hath 
the horridest reputation of any place in 
these parts ; and I like not passing through 
it at this late hour, I promise you." 

" In honest truth it be not in good re- 
pute," observed the old woman, quickening 
her pace somewhat. " Unnatural strange 
sights have been seen here, and it be well 
known that they by whom they have been 
looked on, have never been themselves 
Bjnce. But to my story. Hardly had he 
oiindfolded me when he spurred his horse to 
so monstrous a pace, that it seemed more 
like unto flying than riding ; and, not having 
been used to such, perchance I should soon 
have been jolted from my seat, had not I 
held my companion round the girdle as firm 
as a vice. Now began I to repent of my 
too great willingness to venture on this er- 
land. T was going I knew not where, with 
I knew not whom, to do I knew not what ; 
but when I bethought me of the stranger's 
largess, I took heart, for out of all doubt a 
piece of gold is a notable fine recommenda- 
tion in anew aofiaintance ! and methinks 



it be ungrateful to think ill of those who 
have behaved handsomely to you ; so 1 said 
nought, and proceeded on my journey with 
as much contentation as I might." 

" A grace of G6d, Gammer, make more 
speed .'" cried her companion earnestly. 

" I be getting on as fast as my old legs 
can carry me," answered she; and then 
continued her gossip. " Well, we travelled 
on at this terrible pace for I know not how 
long a time, till the horse came to a dead 
stop ; and, with an injunction to be silent, 
my companion quickly alighted, carried me 
some little distance in his arms, led me up 
some steps, and then leading me yet a little 
further, suddenly pulled the bandage off my 
eyes. I found myself in a very stately 
chamber, having the most costly hangings 
eye ever beheld, and everything of a like 
splendor about it. Lights were burning on 
a table close upon the bed's foot, but I had 
not time to notice one half of what was 
there, when my conductor haughtily bade 
me look to my patient, as he pointed to the 
bed ; ana hearing a most piteous groan, 1 
hastened to do his bidding." 

" Mercy, good Gammer, make mere speed! 
These clouds be close upon the moon, and 
we not half through this terrible field yet ;" 
cried Humphrey, evidently more attentive 
to the look of the sky than the speech ot 
his companion. 

" Marry, 'tis so sure enough !" exclaimed 
the old dame, taking a hasty glance at the 
moon. " Well, there found I a dainty young 
creature, assuredly in as doleful a strait as 
poor lady ever was ; and I came in the very 
nick of time, to do her such desirable ser- 
vice as she required of me. I sought to 
give her what comfort I could, but 1 was 
stopped by the voice of him who had brought 
me, angrily bidding me hold my prate, and 
speed my office ; and then broke he out into 
such bitter invectives against the poor lady, 
as were dreadful to hear, to the which she 
replied never a word, for indeed she could 
not, she was in such severe travail. At 
last, to my great joy, the lady became a 
mother ; but scarce had I took the babe in 
my arms, when my gentleman, who had 
been all this time striding across the roon. 
seemingly in a bad humor, hearing the child 
cry, darted towards me, snatched it rudely 
away, and hurried out of the room with it. 
I felt at that moment as if 'twould be an 
easy matter to knock me down with a 
feather. I could have no doubt there waa 
a most cruel mischief a-doing, and my blood 
run cold within me, at the thought of it." 

" There ! the moon hath gone clean oul 
of sight !" exclaimed Humphrey, as if in 



14 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



otter despair. " Alack, what an unchristian 
place for an honest poor body to be in at this 
ate hour." 

" Well, we must e'en get on as well as 
« r e can, and the lanthorn will help us to 
make sure we go not astray," observed the 
„4her consolingly. 

" What to do I knew not," continued 
«he. " The poor mother looked to be scarce 
alive, that was pitiful enough to see, let her 
ault have been what it might ; but taking 
way the life of an innocent babe that had 
scarce began to breathe, could not be ought 
else than a very devilish and unnatural 
murder." 

" Nay, talk not of murder I pray you, 
good Gammer !" cried her companion very 
movingly ; " I cannot see the length of my 
arm, and I know not what monstrous fear- 
ful things may be in the darkness, ready to 
pounce out upon us." 

" Nothing unnatural can hurt you if you 
be not evil inclined, let them here- lie ever 
bo thick," observed the old dairfl : but this 
seemed not to add much to the other's small 
stock of courage, for he continued to walk 
along, looking suspiciously about him in as 
perfect a fear as ever was, whilst Gammer 
Lambswool strove to keep as close at his 
heels as she could. 

" Ere I could recover myself from the 
strange fright, what had been that moment 
done, had put me in, he returned, and with- 
out the child," added she with much empha- 
sis. "Whereupon I was so confounded 
and terrified at the sight of him, that I re- 
member not what further took place, till I 
. found myself at mine own door with a full 
purse in my hand ; but less glad at the 
sight of it than I was to be quit of the vil- 
lain's company." 

" Mercy, Gammer, what be that !" cried 
Humphrey, in a monstrous fearful voice, as 
he lifted up his lantern, evidently a trem- 
bling from head to foot, and seemed to be 
gazing at something in the distance. 

" Where, I pray you !" inquired the oth- 
er eagerly, as she strove to raise herself on 
her toes for to peep over his shoulder. 

" It moves !" whispered her companion, 
drawing his breath hard. 

" Heaven save us from all harm !" mut- 
tered the old woman, beginning to partake 
of the other's alarm, though she knew not 
as yet what it was caused by. 

" By St. Nicholas, it be making towards 
us!" added he as plainly as his fright 
would allow, and the next moment the lan- 
tern dropped from his trembling hands, and 



with an ague. Gammer Lambswool, being 
in the dark — for their light had been extin 
guished by the fall — and hearing something 
approaching, was about to take to her 
prayers also, when she was startled by a 
quick succession of blows, that seemed to 
fall upon her companion with a force that 
quickly put all conceit of a ghost out of her 
head. 

" Why, thou idling varlet !" exclaimed a 
voice close beside her. " Wert not strictly 
told not to tarry a moment, and thou hast 
been gone nigh these two hours past — a 
murrain on thee." 

" Oh, master !" bawled Humphrey, most 
lustily, writhing under the punishment he 
was receiving. " Hurt me no more, I pray 
you. Mercy, good master ! In honest 
truth I tarried no more than I could help." 

" Indeed, Master Shakspeare, he is not tc 
blame, for I was hindered from coming," 
cried the old woman. " But tell me, I be- 
seeeh you, how fareth your sweet wife ?" 

" Badly, as she needs must, when she 
hath been crying out for you so long," an- 
swered he, as if somewhat out of humor. 

" Well, dear heart, lead you the way, 1 
will haste to her without a moment's more 
delaying,' ' said the Gammer, in a sort of 
coaxing voice ; upon which Humphrey, 
picking up his lantern, and quite forgetting 
his fear in the cudgelling he had lately had, 
although, in honest truth, he had been 
scarce hurt at all — seeing his master and 
the midwife moving off as fast as they 
could — kept close to their heels till they 
reached John Shakspeare's dwelling in 
Henley Street. 



CHAPTER II. 

At first THE INFANT. 

Shakspeare. 
Porter. On my Christian conscience, this 
one christening will beget a thousand ; here 
will be father, godfather, and all together. 
Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. 

Ibid. 
He ruleth all the roast 
With bragging and with boast, 
Borne up on every side 
With pomp and with pride. 

John Skelton. 



Now there was an admirable jovial com- 
pany assembled at the dwelling of Dame 
Shakspeare, to do honor to the christening 
tie fell on his knees, saying of "his prayers, I of her child, and among them were many 
with his teeth a chattering as if he was taken I of the worth v burgesses ef Stratford; far 



THE YOUTH UP SIIAKSPEARE. 



15 



be it understood, Jo in Shasspeare was 
known to be a thriving mr,, and such are 
Ber<j to have no lack of." acquaintances ; and 
his excellent partner having come of a family 
01 some repute in those parts, being no 
other than the heiress of Arden, was much 
looked up to ; and, as she appeared unto all, 
of an honest kind heart ar. J admirable sweet 
aature, she possessed e-"ery onrs good 
word ; of which the consequence was, the 
house coiild scarce contain the company 
ihe occasion had assembled, Some stooa 
about the porch jesting and making merry ; 
others were in the garden, especially of the 
vounger sort, amusing themselves w'.ta 
pleasant talk one with another. One or 
two decent motherly dames were in the 
kitchen bustling to and iio, lookir.g to the 
dinner, of which a huge fire covered with 
pots and kettles, and having a famous large 
ioint at the spit, a little ragged urchin ^ept 
turning — being well minded of all not ;o let 
it burn — showed some preparation — the 
whilst a stout wench with famous red 
cheeks and elbows, evidently in her best 
finery, along with Humphrey, in his Sunday 
ierkin, kept hurrying in and out, laden with 
knives, napery, drinking vessels, trenches, 
and other needful things at a feasting. 

In the best chamber of the whole house 
which looked to be newly strewed with 
fresh rushes, and garnished here and there 
with such flowers as were in season, some 
in china bowls, and some in parcel-gilt 
goblets, there was a large recess, made by 
that end of the room abutting out into the 
street, wherein were most of the principal 
personages of the company. First, for in 
respect of his caJing, I would give him 
precedency of the others, there sat Si^ Na- 
thaniel the curate, easily to be known by 
his portly person, his merry eye, his loud 
laugh, and his free speech. It was bruited 
abroad that he lored good living better that 
became a churchman, and his maple face 
and famous rou.id belly did confirm such 
tales wonderfully. In apparel he was slov- 
enly, and not o^er clean in his linen ; but 
being of a ready wit and of a cheerful hu- 
mor, he went on from day to day feasting 
wherever there was any store of victual, a 
welcome if not an honored guest. Beside 
him was one Stripes the schoolmaster, and 
as folks said, a notable conjurer, who had 
a very lean look with him, and wore such 
garments as seemed to be clean past all 
recovery of tailoring, they were so thread- 
bare. By whai was goicg on ; it appeared 
as if ne was content to oe the butt of thj 
other, for he took in good part at the jests 
the curate aimed at his shrunk shanks, hie 



lantern jaws, his darned hose, and his old 
fashioned doublet, and moreover assented to 
what the other said, with a readiness that 
savored much of servility. Nearer this way 
sat a substantial looking yeoman, by name 
Richard Hathaway, clad in honest home- 
spun, in deep discourse with a neighboring 
wealthy sheep farmer, concerning the mar- 
ket price of wool, the state of the crops, and 
the like matters. A knot of burgesses 
were standing round two aldermen of the 
town, who were debating very stoutly upo»< 
business connected with the corporation . 
and the parish clerk, a little dumpy mar 
with monstrous thick legs, was leaning ha/ 
out of the casement, in earnest talk with 
some one in the street below. 

At the further end of the chamber were 
all the women congregated, appareled in 
their very best, and talking as though none 
had a mind to listen. The rich farmer's 
wife, sitting very stately in a robe of fine 
scarlet, with a white hood, a gay purse, and 
a bunch of keys at her side, hanging from 
a silken belt of silver tissue ; whilst her 
waist was bound with a sash of grass-green 
silk richly embroidered, no lack of jewels 
about her, and on each ringer two rings at 
least, divided the admiration of her compan- 
ions with the aldermen's wives in watchet- 
colored tunics and fringed kirtles, with 
golden coifs and other costly toys, where- 
with they had attired themselves. In the 
midst of them sat Dame Shakspeare, mod- 
estly and matronly clad, and without doubt, 
as seemly a woman as any there, looking 
contented and happy, and giving very earnest 
thanks to her good friends and guests as 
they made up to her with some pretty gift 
or another — mayhap, a set of apostle spoons, 
or a standing cup of silver, or a gilt bowl, 
for the boy, who, with the chrisom-cloth 
about him in token of his recent baptism, 
lay in the arms of his nurse — a rosy faced 
dame, who stood beside her mistress com- 
mending of the babe to all comers above 
babes that ever lived. And lastly, by the 
door, giving a hearty welcome to all who 
entered, dressed in an excellent suit of Lin- 
coln green, and having as cheerful face as 
a man ever wore, stood worthy John Shaks- 
peare, the giver of the feast. 

" Come in, neighbors ! I pray you come 
in !" exclaimed he, as some were entering. 
" I am heartily glad to see you, and n» t good 
dame be as ready to give you a welcovne I'll 
be bound for't. Well met Thomas Hart ! 
Robert Bruce I commend me to your good 
will. Worthy Hammet Sadler I am much 
beholden to you for this visit. Ha, Oliver 
Dumps !" cried he, as his eyes lighte on a 



16 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



melancholy looking little man, in a new 
.eathern jerkin and black karsie hose. 
" Though most men hugely mislike visits 
of the constable, I greet you well." 

" God requite you, neighbor," answered 
the man, not altering a whit the solemness 
of his aspect. 

" Methinks we are all indifferently hon- 
est," continued his host. " Yet are we well 
inclined you should exercise your office 
amongst us with as little hindrance as may 
be." 

" Marry, 'tis a villainous world !" ex- 
claimed the constable. " But if any disho- 
nesty hath been done, point me out the 
knave, that I may take him up before his 
worship." 

" Nay, by your leave not so," replied the 
other. "If* you are for taking up, we are 
only willing you should take up the dinner : 
but with such an offender we doubL not being 
able to play the high bailiff as well as any 
in the county, and would on the instant 
commit him to safe custody in our own 
keeping." Thereupon there was a laugh 
of those around ; for when the host taketh 
upon himself to jest, even if his wit be not 
of the brightest, the guests must lack good 
manners sadly, if their mirth break not out 
at it without stinting. 

" See you, John a Combe ?" inquired the 
buxom wife of one of the aldermen to the 
other, as they now stood somewhat apart 
from the rest, observing the scene I have 
endeavored to describe. 

" Ay, yonder is he, Mistress Alderman 
Malmsey," replied the other, pointing to one 
who had just entered, and seemed by his 
apparel to be somewhat of a gallant, for he 
was very daintily dressed in a new puce- 
colored doublet, with scarlet hose, buff 
Bhoes, and fine rosettes to them : a well 
Btarched ruff below his beard, and a hand- 
some rapier at his girdle. 

" By our Lady, Mistress Alderman Dow- 
las, he beareth himself bravely," exclaimed 
the first. 

" I'faith methinks he is as pretty a man 
as any of his inches," added the other. 

" And then to note how civilly he behaveth 
bimself," continued Dame Malmsey. " He 
ever speaketh of us women in such delicate, 
respectful terms as would do a woman's 
heart good to hear ; and if any so much as 
Insinuate aught to our prejudice, it moveth 
him so, he will be ready to fight the biggest 
man of them all." 

w And yet I marvel he should still remain 
a bachelor," observed Dame Dowlas. " He 
cannot be less than a good manly age, for as 
Master Alderman, my husband, hath told me, 



it was twenty-five years come Whitsur«ti«k^ 
since old John a Combe bought his wedding 
suit of his father ; and that he is well accom* 
modated for a wife there can be no question, 
seeing that he hath ever a fair sum of money 
in his purse at a friend's need, and old John 
a Combe hath the reputation of well filled 
coffers." 

" Perchance the old man is not willing his 
son should marry," said her companion.-*- 
"Or, mayhap, thinks it fit he should wed 
with none but the chiefest families, for he 
hath taken infinite pains, and spared not the 
cost, he should have as good schooling as 
any in the land ; whereof the consequence is, 
you shall find young John a Combe one of 
the properest gentlemen to be met with in all 
Warwickshire." 

" Certes, he seemeth not to affect one more 
than another," exclaimed Dame Malmsey." 
" But I would wager my best kirtle, there is 
never a maid for five miles round Stratford, 
who would not give her ears to have him for 
a husband." 

" In all sincerity I say it, I wish he may 
find a wife worthy of him," said the other, to 
which her companion added a like sincere 
wish. In the meanwhile, the object of their 
friendly commendations passed across the 
chamber, very courteously returning the 
courtesies of those he met, — and few were 
there that did not hasten to greet him, as 
soon as they caught sight of him at his en- 
trance, which showed in what estimation he 
was. These as quickly as he well could be 
parted from, and made up to Dame Shak- 
speare, who with a face radiant with her 
choicest smiles, gave him her hand at his 
approach. 

" I beseech you, pardon me, I have come 
so late," said he to her, in a very soft, gentle- 
manlike voice ; "I have been detained against 
my will, else would I have been here long 
since." 

" I pray you, trouble not yourself about 
it," replied she, with an excellent pleasant 
kindness. " Believe me, you are infinitel) 
welcome, Master Combe, honor our poo 
dwelling when you will." 

" In sooth, I regret exceedingly not having 
sooner paid my respects to our young master 
here," added he, looking from the smiling 
mother to the pretty babe with a delighted 
countenance. " For never saw I, in all my 
days, a child whose exquisite comeliness 
made earliest acquaintance so desirable." 

" Nay, sweet Sir, it is your goodness that 
maketh you think so," replied she, though 
pleased beyond measure with the compli- 
ment. 

" An' it please your worship, it be very 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



17 



firquisilc comeliness, indeed !" exclaimed 
the nurse with some emphasis, as she held 
sut the child to be seen by him more conve- 
niently. " In all honesty I say it, I know 
no* the babe so choicely featured. I pray 
/ ou, note how fair a forehead it hath — the 
-.air, no silk ever was of such marvelous fine- 
ness — here are cheeks that bees would clus- 
ter at taking them to be such delicate rari- 
jies as they have had no experience of — but 
the eyes. I pray your worship, look at these 
eyes ! What pretty twinklers they be ! So 
mild, so soft, so loving, and so roguish withal ! 
I'faith, eyes of so rare a sort surely no child 
ever had ; and as for this dainty little mouth 
■ — if there shall be found any cherry so tempt- 
ing to look upon, I am no true woman." 

" O my life, he is wonderfully pretty !'' 
^ied John a Combe, gazing with an admir- 
ing eye upon its many attractions. 

" Dost think so, really?" asked the happy 
Mother. 

" But then, it hath such strange, wise, 
notable ways with it as exceed all my 
cunning to describe," continued the nurse, 
jumping her charge up and down abit as 
nurses do. " And for a curious nature, his 
exceedeth all comprehension. There shall 
nothing pass in his presence unnoticed of 
him ; and if any thing new come within his 
reach, doubt not he will have hold of it in a 
presently; nay, his curiousness is of so ex- 
treme a sort, that if he but get sight of a 
thing, he will allow of no peace till he have 
it in his hand, and thereby gain some know- 
ledge what stuff it be made of." 

" Methinks, nurse, there is much sign of 
after wisdom in being so early a learner," 
observed John a Combe. 

" Ay, an it please your worship,, that is 
there I'll warrant you," replied she. " Then 
as for his temper, he is so sweetly disposed, 
none can help loving him. He is none of 
your cross-grained, restless, ill-behaved little 
brats that be ever a squalling and bawling 
from morning till night, disturbing of every 
one — not he by my halidom ! for he is so 
peaceable, you might live in the house and 
not know a babe was in it. He goeth to 
sleep just when it is proper for him, and 
wakes himself up only at such times as may 
be most convenient for him to be looked to. In 
shoit, I will be bound for't, his like is not to 
be found in this world ; and if he come not 
Jo be a bishop or at least a justice o' the 
peace, I shall be hugely mistaken in him." 

" O my word, nurse, you have mighty 
hopes of him," exclaimed Dame Shakspeare, 
gazing fondly, and somewhat proudly, on 
the object of so much eulogy, as it lay dandl- 
ing in the arms of her attendant. " In good 



truth, I cannot expect for the boy any such 
famous fortune, and should be well satisfied, 
could I be assured he would live to play the 
part of an honest man, and die in the esti 
mation of his fellows." 

" If such be your desire, believe me the 
assurance is easily come at," remarked John 
a Combe, courteously ; " for it is manifest 
from what nurse hath said of him, that he 
possesses his mother's excellent rare virtues, 
and with such commendable gifts he cannot 
fail to realize all honorable expectations." 

" I am proud of your good opinion, worthy 
Master Combe," answered she, with the un- 
affectedness of a truly modest woman. " It 
shall at least keep me at my powerfulest en- 
deavors to deserve.it better." 

" As some small token of my regard, I 
beseech you, accept of me this poor trifle 
for your sweet son," said he, as he produced 
a very daintily wrought silver cup and cover. 

" Beshrew my heart, but that is as pretty 
a present for a babe as I have seen this many 
a day," exclaimed the nurse ; and then ad- 
dressing the infant, as she let him rise and 
fall in her arms, cried out, " Hoity toity, my 
young master ! thou hast a goodly store of 
friends methinks ! But thou deservest it 
every bit, thou dost, thou pretty rogue ! ' 
And then she fell to tickling of him with one 
hand upon his chest, whilst she held him by 
the other, till the babe laughed after so de- 
licate a fashion as was exquisite to see. 

* I feel too much beholden to you, worthy 
Master Combe, to say aught of the matter," 
said the delighted mother. 

" And here, nurse," he added, taking out 
of his purse a piece of silver, which he 
placed in her hands, " is some small token 
you should bestow your best attentions on 
this my young friend here." 

" That will T, your worship, .depend on't, 
and a million of thanks for your worship's 
largess," exclaimed the other, dropping a 
curtsey, as she accepted the coin. " Well, 
commend me to Master Combe, for a true 
gentleman !" continued she as he had re- 
tired to another part of the chamber. 

" He is ever so," answered her mistress. 
" He giveth signs of a most liberal heart, 
and is at all times a ready mean for the do- 
ing of any good. Perchance one might 
travel masy miles, and not meet with so 
good a neighbor, so true a friend, or so 
worthy a Christian." 

" Now, neighbors ! now friends ! an it 
please you in to dinner," cried John Shaks- 
peare : on the instant, all were in prepara- 
tion to obey the welcome summons, and John 
a Combe hurrying back to Dame Shakspeare, 
gallantly led the way with her, followed ty 



18 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Jhe rest of the company, till he had placed . 
ler in her proper seat. After Sir Nathaniel 
nad said grace, the company set down to a 
dinner that would have gladdened any but 
to have beheld ; for there was brought upon 
the table a famous store of all things in 
season, with plenty of excellent liquor, both 
ale and cider, and all set to with good ap- 
petites and with an evident determination to 
enjoy the cheer that had been provided for 
them. Of these, none so distinguished 
himself as did the curate and the school- 
master. Stripes sat nearly bolt upright in 
his chair, as serious as a judge and as rave- 
nous as a wolf ; yet there was not so glar- 
ing an impudency in his proceedings as was 
in the other, for he was not importunate — he 
waited to be asked — eat what was given 
him — was ready again ; and with small 
pressing, continued at it till long after all 
else had done. 

The host and hostess seemed ever anx- 
ious that each person should have what he 
liked, and plenty of it, and kept Maud the 
girl, and Humphrey, the boy, at their vigil- 
ance, supplying of what was needed, whilst 
John a Combe busied himself in pressing 
those nighest him to make good cheer, and 
looked as if he cared not what he had him- 
self, as long as the rest fared well. Of a 
Burety every one appeared to enjoy himself 
to his heart's content, nor were the women 
altogether unmindful of the bountiful hospi- 
tality that had garnished the board ; for they 
eat and praised, and smiled in such a sort 
as showed how well they were pleased with 
their entertainment. 

At last the meal was over, the dishes re- 
moved, and in their stead the tables were 
covered with a plentiful variety of cakes, such 
fruit as could be got, Marchpane, apples and 
comfits, stewed prunes and dishes of other 
preserves, syllabubs for the younger folks 
muffle of new milk and verjuice, and wine 
for the elders of two or three several kinds ; 
besides which, John Shakspeare was brew- 
ing a goodly bowl of sack with sugar in it, 
for such as affected such delicate drink, of 
whom the two aldermen were most conspic- 
uous, swearing there was no such liquor in 
the world, whilst his excellent sweet wife 
opposite was preparing a jug of spiced ale, 
such liquor being desired, above all others, 
by such of her guests as were farmers or 
yeomen ; ever and anon saying something 
to the nurse, who was standing behind her 
chair with the babe in her arms ; or ac- 
knowledging with some few gracious words, 
the courtesies of John a Combe, who sat 
nigh her and by his own readiness took 
heed that she should have everything she 



needed ready at her hand. Tito jingling of 
glasses and the like noises, caused by the 
moving of bottles, and other drinking ves- 
sels, having in some degree subsided, and 
all having before them what they most de- 
sired, it was observed that John a Combe 
stood up with his glass filled in his hand ; 
and, with some ado, the rude prating of Sir 
Nathaniel being stopped, he was heard to 
speak after this fashion : 

" My worthy good neighbors and friends ! 
There is a custom now of old standing in 
this our very dear country, which methinks 
should be held in good esteem of all true 
English hearts ; to wit, the drinking of 
healths, which, I take it, is a great encoura- 
ger of honest love ; and keepeth true friend- 
ship in excellent remembrance among all 
men. Now it may be known unto you, that 
this same estimable custom is in most re- 
quest amongst those of old acquaintance. 
Therefore I beseech you pardon me, if on 
this occasion I require of you to follow the 
custom with some alteration. There is 
no old familiar friend I would now ask your 
remembrance of; but one whose very name 
hath been unknown to you till this day. I 
cannot point out to you what noticeable vir- 
tues he hath shown, worthy of your com- 
mendation ; for as yet I have been so little 
in his company, he hath not had time to 
show his goodness to me ; but knowing his 
father's extreme honesty of soul, and his 
mother's manifold excellencies of nature, I 
I am assured he cannot fail to have in him 
such bountiful gifts, as in good time mus» 
bring to him all good men's affections. 
Neighbors ! I pray you, with full cups joii 
with me very heartily in drinking — healtb 
to our young friend, William Shakspeare, 
long life and a prosperous !" 

Methinks there should be no need to as- 
sure the reader that the desire of John a 
Combe was followed on the instant with the 
sincere good will of all present. 

" Well done, John a Combe," shouted 
Sir Nathaniel ; " O' my life, a truly excel- 
lent proper speech ; and very scholarly spo- 
ken. What sayest Ticklebreech ?" cried 
he familiarly to the schoolmaster, who sat 
over against him. " Is not the speech a 
sound speech, ay, and a notable speech, ay, 
and a speech of marvelous discretion ?" 

" An' it please your reverence," replied 
Stripes, looking all the whilst as solemn as 
if it was a matter of life or death with him ; 
" touching the speech that hath lately had 
utterance amongst us, I will make so bold 
as to say, that a properer speech shall not 
be found, even should you seek for it in the 
choicest of Demosthenes his Philippics, or 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



19 



of Cicero his Orations. It is a speech that 
hath in it these several excellences ; excel* 
lence of matter, excellence of rhetoric, and 
excellence of" — 

" It may be known of all here I am no 
scholar, like unto our good friend and neigh- 
bor Master Combe," observed John Shaks- 
peare, with his honest cheerful face all of a 
glow, and to the complete cutting short of 
the schoolmaster in what threatened to be 
an exceeding prosy discourse. " Yet had I 
what I lack the most, I doubt it would do 
me such good office as sufficiently to assure 
him of the full great love I bear him in my 
heart for the friendliness he hath shown to 
me and mine on this and other occasions. 
Fain would I dilate concerning of what 
numberless famous proofs he hath exhibited 
of the generousness of his humor, but that 
I know none of you stand in any ignorance 
of them. From his earliest life he hath been 
given to all manner of truly estimable vir- 
tues ; and now his riper manhood, in its 
thorough honesty and free-heartedness, de- 
clareth what proper effect hath come of the 
exceeding virtuousness of his youth. I feel 
proud that Stratford can boast of such a 
one ; and I pray you pardon me, when I add, 
my pride is none the less at finding such a 
one should hold me in his commendation ; 
for, as I take it, to be well spoken of is ever 
to be desired ; but the praise of the praise- 
worthy is a thing beyond all price. In tes- 
timony that your opinion accordeth with 
mine own, I beseech you neighbors, join with 
me in drinking to the health of our wor- 
thy townsman, John a Combe, desiring that 
he may long continue to live amongst us, 
in the same pride and honor as he doth at this 
present."' 

" Marry, but this looketh to be the pro- 
perest speech of the two !" exclaimed Sir 
Nathaniel, as all prepared themselves, and 
with evidence of great good will, to do as 
their host would have them ; " What sayest, 
Pedagogus ?" 

" Indeed, and as your reverence out of 
your singular wisdom hath observed," said 
the schoolmaster, refraining awhile from the 
pippin he was a moment since intent upon 
adding to the great mass of victual that had 
gon3 before it. " It be out of all compari- 
son the properest speech. In short, it shall 
be found, on the very searchingest exami- 
nation, of so proper a sort, that its fellow 
shall not be met with, seek where you will." 

Much more of the same poor stuff he 
might have added, had not the voice of John 
a Combe sent him, nothing loath to the 
munching of his pippin ; for he was of that 
well-disposedness, he would hold his prate 



when his betters were talking ; but among 
poorer folk he would say out his say, were it 
a mile to the end ; and heed none, should 
they talk ever so. Master Combe, thereup- 
on quickly disclaimed any title to praise for 
whatever he had done ; asserting that it was 
what every man should do, regardless of all 
else but the good that came of it. This 
brought others to speak, especially the al- 
dermen and burgesses of his particular 
acquaintance, who in homely fashion gave 
their evidence of his worthiness. In fact, 
every one appeared anxious to say in what 
great estimation he was held of them, only 
with one solitary exception. Of the com- 
pany was one Master Buzzard, a gentleman 
of those parts, who, for all he was of bet- 
ter estate than any there, was an ignorant 
vain person, living in great dissoluteness, 
with such companions as the priest and the 
schoolmaster, and other roysterers; and 
cared for nothing so much as hawking and 
spending his time in riotous ill-living among 
such as were ready to fall into his humor. 
He was of a middle size with strong body 
and full look, and affected to mislike any- 
thing like niceness in apparel. Indeed, his 
manners were of the rudest, but being an 
excellent customer of John Shakspeare, he 
got invited to the christening. At hearing 
the praises that were so bountifully lavish- 
ished upon John a Combe, his soul was 
stirred with a very devilish envy ; and 
though he said nought, save 'twas to mutter 
some contemptuous expression, unheard of 
any but those nighest him, it was easy to be 
seen that he was in wonderful ill-humor. 

At this time a many of the company were 
amusing themselves at the game of Barley 
Break, in the warehouse and places where 
the wool was stored, and other things in 
which John Shakspeare dealt ; and it did 
so happen that Master Alderman Dowlas, 
the draper, was shut up in the middle room 
with the buxom wife of his neighbor, Mas- 
ter Alderman Malmsey, the vintner, and he 
must needs be making love to her, though 
he had as exquisite fair a wife of his own 
as any honest man need desire. Now this 
worthless draper was a man of no par- 
ticular likelihood to fall in with a pretty 
woman's fantasy, having features by no 
means comely ; a long thin nose, and a 
mouth about as expressive of any particular 
affectionateness as a roll of broadcloth. In- 
deed, there was a sort of sanctimoniousness 
in the cut of his beard, and the cropping of 
his hair, and the sober suit of grey in which 
he was usually appareled, that seemed to 
give the flattest contradiction to love of any 
sort, unless it were the love of godlinew 



20 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



and a decent life. Whether what he had 
been drinking put into his head any such 
villainy, or that he was of a very amorous- 
ly disposed nature at all times, I know not ; 
but certain it is, he left the table to play at 
Barley Break; of an equal surety is it, he 
was, in the course of the game, shut up in 
the middle room with the young comely 
wife of his brother alderman ; and it is be- 
yond all contradiction that, after flattering 
" the very infiniteness of her most absolute 
and inconceivable beauty," as he was 
pleased to style her somewhat attractiveness, 
in a sufficiency that ought to have satisfied 
the vainest woman that ever lived, he in a 
monstrous earnestness, swore he loved her 
better than aught else in the universal world. 

" Fie on you, Jonathan Dowlas !" cried 
the pretty woman, evidently, from the 
twinkling of her merry dark eyes, taking 
the affair as an excellent good jest. " I 
marvel you should so conduct yourself to 
your friend's wife, and you a godly man 
too, that hath been married this seven year ! 
— as I live, methinks it is too bad of you." 

" Alack, adorable sweet creature !" cried 
the Alderman, twitching his chair as nigh 
as possible to hers, the which she marked 
by immediately increasing the distance be- 
tween them. " 'Tis all on account of the 
insufficiency of the flesh. The flesh re- 
belleth against all discretion. It stirreth, 
as it were, yea, it be exceedingly moved." 

" I would it would move farther off then," 
exclaimed his fair companion, as she remo- 
ved herself a short distance, upon finding 
him again attempting to get closer to her 
than she liked. 

" Sweet, Mistress Malmsey," continued 
the draper, very pathetically, " as the hart 
panteth for the water brooks, doth my enam- 
ored soul thirst after thine incomparable 
sweet perfection." 

" Then you must quench your thirst at 
other fountains, I promise you," pithily re- 
plied the vintner's wife. " My husband hath 
a famous store of wines. I doubt not, if 
you would give him an order for some, a 
draught or so occasionally would do you, 
out of all comparison, more benefit than 
would the draining of my incomparable 
sweet perfections to the dregs." 

" Nay, that never could be, my honey sweet !" 
exclaimed the Alderman, trying to take her 
hand, which she presently snatched away 
from him. " Sooner shall princes wear 
buckram, and penniless rogues ruffle it in 
ready money better than credit, and large 
costliest cloth of gold. Believe me, as I love 
profits before any loss, I shall grow into a 
deeperation, succeed I not in my suit." 



" Your suit is like to go unshod, for it is 
bootless," answered Mistress Malmsey, 
with a pretty laugh at her own jest ; then 
added, more seriously, " Marry to prevent 
such a mischance as your falling into des- 
peration, I would acquaint your wife with 
your desires, and doubt not at all she'd suit 
you in a presently." 

The Alderman looked as if he relished 
not this raillery. He spoke never a word 
for a minute or so. What more he might 
have said, I know not ; for soon after 
by the chances of the game, they were re- 
leased from their imprisonment, and she 
allowed him no more opportunity of having 
any such conversation with her that day. 
In the meanwhile, they at the table were 
still jovially employed in making good cheer. 
John a Combe was intent upon setting off 
every one to enjoy themselves after such 
fashion as pleased them most, and seeing 
that all had proper refreshment when their 
sports had tired them in any way. John 
Shakspeare was employed in a like manner, 
and so was his good dame ; whereof, the 
consequence was, as has been acknowledg- 
ed many times since, that there never was 
known, at any merry-making, such a gene- 
ral contentation of the guests ; and he who 
was the general cause of this great content 
lacked no honor which the occasion seemed 
to warrant. He was praised as bountifully 
as if each had taken a cue from the nurse- 
all the women must needs have a kiss of 
him ; and divers among those nigh unto mar- 
riageable estate would not be satisfied with- 
out dandling him a bit in their arms — may- 
hap to show certain of the young men there 
how apt they were at so notable an exercise. 
At last, having been caressed and praised 
of all, with a liberality that exceedeth con- 
ception, amid much regret of the young 
folks nurse took him away — as in sooth, it 
was high time he should be asleep in his 
cradle. 

Master Burrard continued at the table 
eyeing, with a marvelous sour and gloomy 
aspect, the attentions that were paid to John 
a Combe and it fretted him to find that he, 
for all his greater state was held in no such 
estimation. Along with him, were Sir Na- 
thaniel, Stripes, and Oliver Dumps; and 
sometimes others would join them for a 
time, upon getting weary of their sports ; 
but these four appeared to like nothing so 
well as continual tippling of such liquors 
as were before them, seasoned with such 
talk as persons so disposed, were most like 
to affect. 

" It may be, or it may not be," observed 
Sir Nathaniel, after rehearsing to his listen* 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



ai 



ers a scandalous story ; " but here is a child 
found, and as far as my learning may go, I 
know of no child having been born without 
the help of a mother. What sayest, Sir 
Conjuror ?" 

" There can be no doubt of it, please 
your reverence," replied the schoolmaster. 
" Though it hath been asserted, by divers 
creditable historians that Venus sprang 
from the foam of the sea, and Minerva from 
the brain of Jove ; for my own part, I would 
maintain, yet with all due deference, the 
utter impossibility of any one person com- 
ing into this world without having to boast 
of a mother, and perchance, if there should 
be no doubt on't, of a father also." 

" Thou art a fool old hocus pocus, and no 
conjuror !" exclaimed the curate, sharply, 
" a very fool, and as ignorant as a heathen. 
Had Adam a mother, or Eve ? Surely thou 
hast forgotten thy Testament — thou Ba- 
laam's ass ! But thou never wert half so 
wise an animal as he ; for it be well known 
of all men, that once upon a time, when he 
was carrying off Potiphar's wife into Egypt, 
he spake unto Moses, saying, ' Paul ! Paul ! 
thou almost persuadest me to be a Christian.' " 

" Methinks asses must have been wiser 
in those days than they be now," said the 
constable, gravely. " My father hath had 
an ass of his own a long time past, but it 
never gave any sign of speech." 

" It hath begun at last, then ecce signum," 
cried Sir Nathaniel, laughing famously, in 
which he was joined by his companions. 
" But touching this child. It doth appear 
that Dame Lucy made discovery of a young 
child that had been abandoned, as it was said ; 
and as it could not have been Sir Thomas 
Lucy's, it could not, with any toleration, be 
Sir Thomas Lucy's wife's. That child the 
good dame had me christen, some short time 
since, by the name of Mabel ; and she hath* 
resolved, as she told me, to bring it up as 
her own ; the which she must needs do with 
the perfect likeness that ever was, for many 
do say she hath other right to it than that of 
first discoverer." 

" By God's body, it be infamous !" cried 
Master Buzzard, in a rude loud voice that 
attracted the attention of all within reach of 
it. " The vileness of these women hath no 
rivalry save the craft with which they hide 
it. They are traitors to honesty, all of them ; 
and I would as soon believe in the trustwor- 
thiness of a cut-purse, as I would in the vir- 
tuousness of any one of them." 

" An' it please you, Master Buzzard, the 
Queen's Highness whose unworthy con- 
stable I am, is a woman, as I have heard," 
here remarked Oliver Dumps, with the air of 



one who cometh to the resolution of doing 
his duty though it be unpleasant to him. 
" And though no later than yesterday 1 did 
put in the stocks, for wantonness, one Marian 
Loosefish, a woman also, as in my conscience 
I do firmly believe ; yet as it seemeth to me 
it be like to bring her Majesty's name into 
contempt among all her loving subjects — the 
which be against the law — to say that wo- 
men be given to all manner of villany, and 
to assert at the same time that the Queen's 
Highness is a woman, I must maintain 
it by virtue of my office, that if all wo- 
men may be ■ queans, then is the queen no 
woman." 

" Pooh !" exclaimed Master Buzzard. 

" But I will not have it ' pooh,' " cried the 
constable, raising his voice, and seeming in 
some indignation. " It be flat contumacious- 
ness, and very sedition. . I will allow of it 
on no account ; and I charge you, on your 
allegiance declare the Queen's Highness no 
woman, or any such vileness, else will I 
straight with you to the cage." 

" What, would st put a gentleman in the 
cage ?" cried Sir Nathaniel, as if in some 
surprise. " Hath no respect for persons ?" . 

" No, nor for parsons either, should they 
conduct themselves unadvisedly," answered . 
the little man determinedly. " I am put in 
authority for the preservation of the peace, 
and it behooveth me to keep good heed there 
be no idle prating like to lead to a brawl." 

" The man's an ass," said Master Buz- 
zard, in very evident contempt. 

" Hullo, my masters ! what hath caused 
this unseemly to do amongst you?" called out 
John a Combe, as, drawn by the constable's 
loud voice, and violent manner, he, with 
others, was attracted to the table. "I mar- 
vel, on such an occasion as this, to see any 
quarrelling. I pray you, say the matter of 
difference betwixt you, that I may do my 
best, as speedy as may be, to bring it to an 
amicable ending." 

*" Marry, this is it," replied Oliver, in no 
Way abating the greatness of his indignation, 
whilst Master Buzzard sat with a perfect 
mdifferency, mingled with some scorn of the 
whole business, rocking himself on his chair, 
" Master Buzzard hath given me ill words, 
and I will have the law of him ; moreover, 
he hath spoken shamefully of the queen's 
grace, for the which he shall have to make 
proper amends ; and, lastly, he hath insinu- 
ated evil opinions of my lady, the wife of his 
worship Sir Thomas Lucy, in particular 
and of all women in general, saying that 
they be notoriously dishonest, and ever givec 
to unlawful behavior." 

" What he hath spoken ill ©f you, worthy 



S3 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Master Constable, be sure he said in jest," 
remarked John a Combe. " And I cannot 
believe you to be so unneighborly as to allow 
of such a thing moving you." 

" Nay, but he hath called me an ass, Mas- 
ter Combe, and there be no jest in that as I 
can see," cried out the offended constable. 

" He meant it as a jest depend on't," re- 
plied the other. 

" Ay, 'twas a jest out of all doubt," here 
observed Sir Nathaniel, just after draining 
his goblet. " Didst not take it take it for a 
jest, Ticklebreech ?" added he, turning to 
his companion. 

" O' my life yes, an't please your reve- 
rence," answered the schoolmaster ; " as 
excellent good jest as ever I heard." 

" Well, an' it be a jest, indeed," said Oli- 
ver Dumps, in a quieter tone ; " believe me 
I was ignorant of it, else would I have said 
nought of the matter, for I am not so crab- 
bed as to take offence where none be intend- 
ed ; but what saith he concerning his ill 
speech of the queen ? that was no jest, at 
least he will find it none, I warrant you." 

" You must have misunderstood his mean- 
ing surely ?" observed John a Combe. " 'Tis 
not at all in reason that one known to be so 
well -disposed towards her Majesty as is 
Master Buzzard, should say so much as one 
single word to her prejudice." 

" If he said not all women be mere wan- 
tons, count me the lyingest knave in Chris- 
tendom," asserted the constable with some 
vehemence. 

" Perchance he may have said, it, but that 
he had any such meaning will I never be- 
lieve," remarked Master Combe. 

" I will wager my life on it he had a very 
different meaning," exclaimed the curate. 
Then called he to his sworn-fellow, " What 
sayest, Lanthornjaws ?" 

" Please your reverence, I will vouch for 
it, his meaning must needs have been of a 
clean contrary sort," readily answered the 
schoolmaster. 

" Marry then, since that be the opinion 
of these honest gentlemen, I will not stir in 
the matter further," said Oliver. " I would 
torture no man's speech to do him hurt, not 
I, even though I might be made alderman to- 
morrow for't. But touching my lady, Sir 
Thomas Lucy's wife, I heard of a child she 
had found and bringeth up as her own, of 
the which if I remember me, Master Buz- 
zard believeth the good lady to be the mo- 
ther, without consent first had and obtained 
of his worship, her husband ; and this I take 
it, can be no other than scandalum magna- 
tum — a terrible heinous offence as I have 
board." 



" I cannot believe Master Buzzard would 
speak of such a matter, save - as the common 
talk of the vulgar sort, who know no bet- 
ter," said John a Combe. For mine own 
part, there is nothing of which I am so well 
assured as of the wonderful excellence of 
woman. All that extreme force of rhetoric 
could speak, or most famous cunning of the 
pen could describe, in my humble opinion 
could never give her such sufficient justice - 
as her infinite merits deserve. Whatever 
there is of goodness — whatever there is of 
kindness, of pitifulness of heart, of noble- 
ness of disposition, have their chiefest place 
in her, and she is the origin of that mar- 
velous sweet power that gives humanity its 
rarest excellence, and binds all nature in 
one unending chain that never rusts, that 
will not clog, and that cannot be sundered 
— the links whereof are those endearing 
sympathies that join to form the universal 
bondage of the affections. Such bountiful 
store of graces does she possess, that al- 
though poets from earliest time have been 
endeavoring to make them known to the 
world, in our own day such attractions as 
have escaped notice, are found to be out of 
all number ; and it hath been well asserted, 
the same is like to continue to latest pos- 
terity. Methinks there shall be no need of 
saying aught to show what great share she 
hath in the production of everything that 
tendeth to happiness in this world, for you 
cannot help knowing that all true pleasure 
is of her giving. Of her excellence I 
would content myself with asking — What 
virtue is like to a woman's ? — What honesty 
is like to a woman's ? — What love, what 
courage, what truth, what generousness, 
what self-denial, what patience under afflic- 
tion, and forgiveness for wrong come at all 
nigh unto such as a woman showeth ? Be- 
lieve me the man who cannot honor so truly 
divine a creature, is an ignorant poor fellow, 
whom it would be a compliment to style a 
fool ; or an ungrateful mean wretch, whom 
charity preventeth me from calling a villain." 

" Thou liest, knave !" shouted Master 
Buzzard, starting to his feet, and drawing 
his rapier, and looking to be in a monstrous 
deadly rage. " Thou art thyself but a pal- 
try villain as ever lived, and a coward to 
boot, as I will presently prove — so come on, 
or I will make no more account of thy pes- 
tilent body than I would of a stinking 
mackerel." 

" Aid in the Queen's name, you that be 
good men and true !" exclaimed the consta- 
ble, amidst the shrieks of the women and 
the outcries of the men, as he bustled up 
between the expected combatants. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



38 



"Put down your weapon, Master Buz- 
Eard, I pray you," cried John Shakspeare, 
hastening with others to the scene. 

" I will cut off thy ears as a supper for 
my dogs !" continued Master Buzzard, seem- 
ing to increase in his passion. 

" A riot ! a riot ! Surrender you my pris- 
oner in the Queen's name !" added Oliver 
Dumps, advancing close to the offender, as 
if with the intention of seizing him. 

" Out fool, or I will pin thee to the wall," 
shouted Master Buzzard, making a pass at 
the constable, the which to avoid he made 
a leap of so prodigious a length, it hath 
been said he never did such a feat before or 
since. 

" Oh, here will be a foul murder done !" ex- 
claimed Dame Shakspeare, piteously wring- 
ing of her hands. 

" Come on fellow, and take thy death !" 
cried Master Buzzard, going furiously at 
John a Combe, who had got his weapon out 
in readiness to defend himself, but ere his 
opponent reached within thrusting distance, 
John Shakspeare had fast hold of his arm, 
and others springing on him at the same 
moment, he was soon deprived of all means 
of offence. 

" I marvel a person of your quality should 
be for a quarrel at such a time as this," ob- 
served his host. 

" Is't fitting such a pitiful coxcomb of a 
fellow should preach to me," cried the other 
very furiously, striving to break from those 
who held him. 

"Hold him fast, good neighbors," ex- 
claimed Oliver Dumps, now coming nearer, 
seeing that his prisoner was disarmed. " Let 
him go on no account, I pray you. He 
hath sought to do me deadly injury in the 
execution of my office, and it cannot but go 
hard with him at assize." 

" I beseech you, pass it over !" said John 
a Combe. " It was but some sudden heat 
of temper in him, and I doubt not he will 
regret it in the morning." 

" Away coward ; I spit at thee !" shouted 
Master Buzzard, in a fiercer rage than ever, 
as he was being borne out at the door. " I 
do long to be at thee. I would make more 
holes in thy body than shall be found in a 
sieve." 

" Bring him along, neighbors," cried the 
constable. " We'll spoil this killing humor 
of his, I promise you." 

Master Buzzard was forcibly carried out 
of the house, yet without any rudeness on 
the part of his bearers, who because of his 

Suality were lcth he should be punished for 
is brawling; and after much opposition 
froa Oliver Dumps wanting to be thought 



the Queen's trusty officer, who liked not of 
an offence being hushed up, it was agreed 
that no notice should be taken of it, on con- 
dition of the offender's going peaceably 
home. In the mean time, the guests re- 
covering from their alarm, got to dancing a 
measure, and other diversions, as if nought 
had happened to disturb their sports, and 
went not away till late, vowing that of all 
the merry meetings, they had been at, for 
the pleasure they had had, none had been 
like to the christening of William Shaks- 
peare. 



CHAPTER III. 

These things begin 
To look like dangers, now, worthy my fates. 
Fortune, I see thy worst ; let doubtful states, 
And things uncertain hang upon thy will ; 
Me surest death shall render certain still. 

Ben Jons .Mr. 
I held it ever 
Virtue and cunning were endowments greater 
Than nobleness and riches ; careless heirs 
May the two latter darken and expend ; 
But immortality attends the former, 
Making a man a god. 

Shakspeare. 
Their angry looks, their deadly daunting blows, 
Might witness well that in their hearts remained 
As cankered hate, disdain, and furious mood, 
As ever bred in bear or tiger's breast. 

Gascoyne. 

" Saul, what art doing ?" 

" Looking to see that the gesses and bells 
of this tercel gentle be in the properest trim, 
master." 

" Ay, well thought of; but, as I have 
ever marked, thou hast wonderful foresight." 

" Marry, my sight be good enough ; me- 
thinks I can trace a hawk as well as any." 

" In truth thou hast many commendable 
qualities, and I would fain give some token 
of how well esteemed they are of me." 

" Indeed ! but that be kind of you, master ; 
monstrous kind ! and, as for my qualities, I 
doubt they be anything out of the common. 
Peradventure I am as cunning at the rear- 
ing of hawks as any fellow in Warwick- 
shire ; at quarterstaff, wrestling, pitch the 
bar, running at< the quintain, and other 
games, care for none; and will dance a 
morrice, play tne hobby-horse in the May 
games, or take a fling at a Shrove-tide cock, 
with as much perfectness as you shall see 
among a thousand." 

His master was silent for a minute or so ; 
yet his aspect wore a troubled, and by no 



u 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



asea..is pltasing expression, that looked as if 
be wanted to disburden his mind of some- 
v.\ing. For a while he kept feeding of a 
Lawk he held on his wrist. His companion 
yas a sturdy varlet of some thirty years, 
with a freckled face, a thick clumsy head, 
and features expressive of one alike reck- 
less and impudent. He was clad in a for- 
ester's frock of Kendal green, confined at 
the waist with a belt, having a pocket at 
the side, below which little could be seen, 
save his crimson hose and thick buff boots ; 
and he wore a rapier and a dagger. Of 
these two the one was Master Buzzard, of 
whom the reader hath already some know- 
ledge, and the other was his man Saul, his 
chief favorite and confidant. They were to- 
gether in the hall, once a fair chamber, in 
Master Buzzard's house, with a famous tim- 
ber roof, and a goodly store of old armor 
hung about, but on account of the great 
number of hawks and dogs that were kept 
in it, some being here and some there, a lit- 
ter of pups in one corner and a cast of fal- 
cons in another, with lurchers, deer-hounds, 
and spaniels of every kind, running in and 
out of every hole and corner, witli little re- 
gard to cleanliness, the place was scarce fit 
for any human being to be in. All amongst 
the corslets and plates of mail, were nailed 
the skins of herons and the tails of foxes, 
the antlers of a stag and the heads of divers 
kinds of wild fowl, badgers, pole-cats, and 
other vermin ; and there seemed to bet but 
little furniture in ordinary use, as chair or 
table, unencumbered with things necessary 
for hawking, or hunting, or fishing, or some 
sport of a like nature. On a corner of a 
ong table, close to where Master Buzzard 
jvas standing, there stood a tray with the 
remains of a pasty, and a flagon beside it, 
which was some sign that the place, how- 
ever unsightly it might be, was not badly 
off for victual. 

" Thou knowest, Saul, how good a master 
I have been to thee," continued Master 
Buzzard. 

" Ay, by gog's blood, that do I !" exclaim- 
ed his man, with great earnestness, " and 
'jiany thanks to your worship. I'faith, there 
,s no denying I am well off for a master, for 
one more cunning in hunting, and hawking, 
and all such goodly sports, of a more valor- 
ous nature, let his weapon be what it may ; 
or of a more truly prodigal disposition, upon 
any proper occasion, I doubt hugely, I should 
meet with, sought I ever so. Marry, if your 
worship is as well off for a servant as am I 
for a master, then ought we to be envied of 
•U men." 

" By God's I value not my best goshawk 



as I do thy faithful service," repJed his mas- 
ter, still seeming to keep his attention fixed 
upon his bird. "In truth, Saul, I do look 
upon thee as my right hand ; and I do in- 
tend, before any very long time hath passed, 
to show thee such excellent instance of my 
good will as must rejoice thee inlinitely to 
see." 

" 'Fore George ! master, I want none 
such," said his companion, albeit with a 
marvelous lack of sincerity. " Yet would 
I on no account baulk the generousness of 
your humor. I am not unmindful how oft 
your worship hath stood between me and 
harm, when a parcel of poor linsey wolsey 
knaves of the town yonder, went about tell- 
ing of me the horriblest slanders that ever 
was heard." 

" Ay, it hath been said of many thou 
wert'he who stabbed Daniel Short, of Bars- 
ton, who was found dead in the meadow," 
observed the other, regarding of his goshawk 
with a more intense earnestness. " But I 
heeded them not. It was sworn before the 
high bailiff thou didst misuse Joan Spring- 
field at the town end. and he was for pro- 
ceeding against thee with as much severity 
as might be ; but I stayed him in the matter. 
And there was much ado made of thy 
shooting at Daniel Buckthorn, of the Mill ; 
and it would have gone hard with thee had 
I not stepped in and hushed all up." 

" Never was man so abused!" exclaimed 
Saul with a very monstrous vehemency. " I 
have enemies, master, — scores of them, I 
promise you ; and they be such thorough- 
going cowards and dastardly poor villains as 
cannot come with any fair weapon before 
me, and challenge me with the infamy they 
would lay to my charge, that I might disprove 
it on their pestilent bodies, but needs must 
whisper all manner of the horriblest false 
stuff that ever was uttered, among such piti 
ful fools as they can get to listen to them 
'Slife, master ! there be no living for such, 
knaves, and an honest man might as well go 
hang at once as be pestered with them. For 
mine own part, I do think the ridding of the 
world of any a very commendable thing • 
and could I meet with one who had been 
playing his knave's tricks on your worship, 
or on any other for whom I am so bound, 
I would slit his weason for him whenever 
the time served, and none should be the 
wiser." 

A smile of peculiar meaning appeared on 
the face of Master Buzzard at this inti 
mation. 

"Dost know John a Combe?" inquired 
the latter with an assumed indifferency. 

" Know John a Ccmbe I" exclaimed Saul 



THE YOUTH (j* SHAKSPEARE. 



25 



m some surprise, and with a more evident 
contempt. "Is lie not the errantest skip- 
jack in all the country round ? — a fine Sun- 
day gentleman, forsooth ! that looks as if he 
layeth himself up in lavender o'nights, that 
he may smell sweet i'the morning ? Why he 
is as common as the stocks, and as like to be 
avoided by all true men as is the pillory or 
the whipping-post. I should as soon expect 
Gammer Lambsvvool to inquire for the gos- 
sip's bridle, as your worship to ask after John 
a Combe. 'Sblood ! he taketh upon him, 
too, to come Master perfection over us, and 
must needs be seeking to be thought an ex- 
ample of goodness, and wisdom, and every 
virtue under the sun, thinking to be as fa- 
mous as Sir Guy of Warwick. I would 
forfeit a year's wages found I not more vir- 
tue in a bunch of nettles than you shall 
discover in him, search you from now till 
doomsday." 

Master Buzzard sought not to interrupt 
his man in his speech, for a very excellent 
reason, because it v/as much to his liking, 
the which the other knew full well ; for 
he was a cunning knave, that ever stu- 
died to jump with his master's humor at all 
times, and was aware of what had passed 
betwixt him and Master Combe, and more- 
over, was willing enough to reap advantage 
of it. 

" Indeed, I take him to be as scurvy a 
fellow as any that lives," observed Master 
Buzzard with wonderful bitterness. 

" That is he, out of all doubt," replied his 
man in much the same sort of spirit. " I 
hate such popinjays. It be monstrous fine 
certain'y for such a paltry knave as he is to 
be ever schooling of your worship, as it 
were" — 

" I tell thee, Saul, I will endure his swag- 
gering airs no longer !" exclaimed Master 
Buzzard, interrupting his man with great 
fierceness. " He is ever thrusting him- 
self in my way — a murrain on him ! I 
cannot do as my wont for his pestilent med- 
dling. Wherever he is I must need play 
mumchance. All run to John a Combe ; all 
bend to John a Combe ; all listen to John a 
Combe ! 'Slife ! it maketh me mad to see 
him so noticed, so praised, so courted, whilst 
his betters must be thrust aside as worthy 
of no better heed than a mangy cur." 

" Doth the caitiff" ruffle it so bravely ?" 
inquired t he other. " Well, never heard I 
of such thorough im pudency. But what 
ignorant poor fools must be they who would 
be led by him ! Marry ! I am so moved 
with indignation at the slights put on your 
worship by sc paltry a villain, that I know 



not what mischief I should be ready to de 
him.-' 

" But that is not the worst of it," con 
tinued his master with more vehemence. 
" He hath put on me intolerable affronts, 
and as yet all attempts, seek I when I would, 
to be revenged of him, have been bootless. 
No later than this very morning, scarce an 
hour gone, meeting him alone in the back 
lane, I drew upon him, thinking I had him 
sure ; but the villain carried some amulet or 
devilish charm; for though I made my 
deadliest thrusts with all the skill of which 
I am master, he remained unhurt, and in a 
short space my weapon was sent flying out 
of my hand a full twenty yards ; whereupon, 
with a Judas smile, the villain bowed to me, 
and wishing me ' Good day,' took himself off 
on the instant." 

" O' my life ! 'twas but a coward's trick, 
master!" cried Saul. "I marvel you did 
not after him and stick him as he went." 

" By this hand, I would gladly have done 
it!" exclaimed his master. "But I was so 
confounded at the flight of my rapier, and 
at the fellow's assurance, that I knew not 
what to be at, and ere I had resolved, he 
had gone clean out of sight. Doubtless he 
will go bruiting it abroad, as far as he can, 
how he had me at his mercy and spared my 
life. 'Slife !" continued he with an exceed 
ing uneasy and malignant look with him 
" methinks I am poorly served when such a 
fellow as this can do me all manner of of- 
fence, and go unharmed." 

" Nay, ' by your leave, master, not so,' 
quickly answered Saul, " when you have 
had my service in this business, I will be 
bold to say you shall not count yoursel* 
poorly served." 

"I would I could be well rid of him,' 
said Master Buzzard in a lower voice. 

" If it please you, master, let that be my 
care," observed the other. 

" I hear that he is oft to be met with af 
ter dark in the narrow lane at the town 
end," observed Master Buzzard, his voice 
gradually sinking to a whisper. 

" A goodly place, and a goodly time too,' 
added the other, with a sort of half audible 
laugh, " but mayhap his worship shall choose 
to go there once too often." Thus went they 
on, as bad men do concert their villanies 
half ashamed to look each other in the face 
and as their intentions became manifest, 
dropping their voices to a close whisper 
that the evil they would be about might not 
be heard of any. But in this I can follow 
them no longer, having game in view mow 
worthy of the reader's attention. 



M 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



There was a ha'll to be ho*Gen at the town 
that day, at which the aldermen and others 
of the corporation had been summoned in 
euch terms as showed it to be a matter of 
the very hugest importance that called them 
together. Whether it related to certain in- 
telligence of some rebellion broke out against 
Yhe Queen's Highness, to risings of the pa- 
pists, or to rumors of invasion from the 
Spaniards, seemed not to be clearly ascer- 
vained ; for among the honest burgesses who 
had got note of this extraordinary meeting, 
here were heard is many reasons for it as 
here were tongue., to speak them, whereof 
•he general belief at last rested upon the 
three above named. Thai nothing threaten- 
ed to affect the immediate safety of the town 
was apparent from the usual air of careless- 
ness and security that prevailed throughout 
the principal street. Here might be seen a 
troop of boys fresh broke out from school, 
hallooing like mad ; there a knot of a mean- 
3r sort at play, whilst a little one from the 
school, though hastening home to his pa- 
rents, kept castirg Vhini him a wistful 
/ook, as if he did lc g to join in their pas- 
time. One or frvc tJg dogs were seen 
stretched at their le^^h by their master's 
doors, and now and then some one or 
other of a smaller kind would dart out of a 
doorway, yelping at the heels of the noisy 
children, till one mor.} courageous than his 
fellows would up with a stone, and send him 
back yelping louder tl an he came, making 
Jie tailor leap from his board, the cordwain- 
er throw down his lapscone, and the appren- 
tice lu; ive his work, to see what was the 
hubb..j. Here and there careful mothers 
were calling out of their casements to has- 
ten home their boys, or s >me provident house- 
wife would be casting s store of victual for 
the feeding of her stock of fowls, who, with 
fluttering wings and eag it throats, would be 
eeen eagerly flocking to 7ards her. 

In several places, there might be seen 
some two or three of the neighbors convers- 
ing soberly and with great show of earnest- 
ness, more particularly about the doors of 
khe principal burgesses ; and in front of the 
casements of Master Alderman Malmsey, 
the vintner, where there was a famous 
,;roup, with a horseman in the midst, look- 
.ag to be so busy of speech as to pay but 
,.ttle heed to the tankards and drinking 
-ors£ ]?e.W by seme of the l. Opposite was 
■he dwelling of Master A derman Dowlas, 
die draper, with its lower windows showing 
-livers rolls of cloth of sundry colors, whilst 
*i the open < asem^nt a hove ar-t his buxoi.i 
fair wife, with Mistrt ** Malmjey at her side, 
j^jrs§r / iis» r&fjy.; /)& ♦ very cor *c: end- 



able industry, and as it seemed using her 
tongue with a like speed. Coming down 
the street was a drove of cows, some of 
which must needs put their heads in the 
water-tiough before the inn, thinking to 
have a good drink, but the stable boys would 
not allow of it, for they drove them off pre- 
sently, by throwing up their arms, and mak- 
ing a great shouting. A little curly-haired 
child scarce big enough to run alone, was 
standing in the midst of the road m< % oing at 
the cattle as bold as you please and putting-* i; 
out its little hands as if to prevei it then? ^ ' 
going further ; and an elder skter, with a 
marvellous anxious frightened fact; vr«s 
rushing from a neighboring d'/ur-wxy to 
hurry him out of danger. All the case- 
ments, and nearly all the doors, stood invit- 
ingly open for it was p. hot summer's da v 
at the latter end of June, and every wb/>*» 
there where signs of a desire to be reli^-* 
of the oppressive sultriness of the afu*v 
sphere, either by seeking of the shadv Js^% 
or where a draught of cooler air > jght 
gained, or by drinking of tankr is of c' ' 
and other refreshing liquors, wherever V 
might be had. 

For all this gossiping and ca^ «5ssL.ess 
on every side, it was noted that vne or two 
of the elder aldermen who were going to the 
hall, wore visages of exceeding gravity, and 
seemed intent upon avoiding the approaches 
of such of their townsmen as they met in 
their way, with looks so suspicious and 
fearful, that the latter knew not what to 
make of it. Presently, there came by John 
Shakspeare and Master Combe, likewise on 
their way to the hall ; but they looked to be 
in a more serious humor even than the a** 
dermen, and would on no account stop fc 
any, which was the more strange, becausa 
both were well known to be of a rnosv 
friendly spirit, and had ever cheerfully an 
swered any man's salutation. 

" Whether so fast, my master ?" shouted 
Sir Nathaniel, as he popped his fat rosy face 
out at the casement to call them. " Dost 
pass so exquisite a house of entertainment 
as this, at the pace thou art going, when the 
sun seemeth to be intent upon making of us 
so many St. Bartholomews ? Two rabid 
dogs could not have behaved less reasonably 
towards good liquor. Prithee, come and 
share with us, and doubt not being welcome, 
even if thou pay for all." 

To this invitation, the two merely shook 
their heads and continued on their way, to 
the huge disccr.tent of the curate a! d the 
schoolmaster, who, at the sight of t? « n, ex- 
pected to have had at Inast an extra tankaid 
or two withou' hint'- V»> - r» purses. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Jo.in Shakspeare and his friend then pro- 
ceeded without further hindrance to the 
church, and soon afterwards entered the 
vestry — a chamber of no great dimensions, 
furnished only with a long table, at the head 
of which was a high-backed chair, and on 
each side were a couple of benches. In 
the chair was the high bailiff, one Timothy 
Mallet, the wheelwright. Opposite, on a 
low stool, with a many papers, and two or 
three huge books before him, sat the dimin- 
utive form of Jemmy Catchpole, the town 
lawyer, who was said to be so learned in the 
law as to be fitter to be a judge of assize 
than any living. His sharp grey eyes 
twinkled with a perpetual restlessness, and 
his parchment-skin seemed growing of a 
deeper yellow, as, with a pen in his hand, 
he watched or made notes of the matter pro- 
ceeding. On each side were seated such 
of the aldermen as attended, likewise others 
of the corporation who were not of the al- 
dermen; and Master Alderman Malmsey, 
with his purple in-grain countenance and 
very puncheon of a person, who affected the 
orator in no small measure, was on his 
legs, if such round things as he had might 
be so called, denouncing with a monstrous 
vehemency a motion, then under discussion, 
for repairing the parish well. Some listened 
to him attentively, others were conversing 
apart ; but it might have been noted, that a 
few wore aspects so anxious as plainly 
showed their minds were intent on another 
matter. His argument was to the effect, 
that water was a thing which all honest 
men ought to eschew, unless as at the mar- 
riage at Cana it could be turned into wine, 
and that wine was a thing most absolute 
and necessary to a man's well doing ; there- 
fore, it would be much better to buy a pipe 
of such fine hippocras as he could sell them, 
for the use of the corporation, than to apply 
any of its funds for the repairing of so un- 
profitable a thing as a well. At this, up- 
started at once a baker and a butcher, 
swearing with equal vehemency, that no- 
thing was so necessary as plenty of bread 
and meat, and advocating the greater lauda- 
bleness of laying in a store of such victual, 
which they could not do better than have of 
them, to wasting the corporation funds in 
the project that had so injudiciously been 
proposed. Others might have followed in a 
like strain, but at this instant John Shaks- 
peare, who had waited with his stock of pa- 
tience getting to be less and less every mo- 
ment, now rose, and with his honest face 
somewhat pale and of an uneasy expression, 
proceeded to take a share in the debate. It 
Was noticed, that on his rising, the few who 



had appeared so unmindful of what was go- 
ing on, looked marvelously attentive ; and 
the others, as if curious to know what one 
so well esteemed had to say on the matter, 
were no less careful listeners. 

" I pray you lose not the precious time in 
such idle stuff as this," exclaimed he. " We 
want your wisest counsel. We are threat- 
ened with such calamity as is enough at the 
mere thought of it, to strike us dead with 
fear. We cannot thrust it aside. It hath 
come upon us unprepared. All that can be 
done is to endeavor to keep the mischief in 
as narrow a compass as may be possible. 
Up and be doing then, my masters, without 
a moment's delaying, for the negligence of 
one may be the destruction of all." 

At the hearing of this discourse, so differ- 
ent from what all, excepting the anxious 
few, expected, the greater number stared in 
absolute astonishment, and the rest waited 
as if in the expectation of hearing what was 
to follow. 

" My friends !" continued the speaker, in 
a low, thick voice, as if he could scarce 
speak, " The plague is in Stratford .'" 

" The plague ?" exclaimed many in the 
same moment of time, leaning forward from 
their seats, breathless with horror and sur- 
prise. 

" I would to God there could be a doubt 
of it !" replied John Shakspeare. " My 
worthy and approved good friend, Master 
Combe, of whose honorableness there can 
be none here present who have not had 
excellent evidence, hath, in one of the mani- 
fold generous offices he is ever intent upon 
doing to his poorer neighbors, made this 
doleful discovery; and with the advice of 
divers of the most experienced of my fellow 
burgesses, who alone knew of it from me, I 
have had you here assembled, that you might 
learn from him the exact truth, and then 
consider amongst yourselves which will be 
the fittest way of providing for the common 
safety." 

At this there was a dead silence ; and 
when Master Combe stood up, every eye 
was strained to scrutinize him, and every 
ear stretched forward to hear the most dis- 
tinctly the promised communication. 

" I pray you, my worthy neighbors and 
friends, fear nothing !" exclaimed John a 
Combe ; " fear will only make you the vic- 
tim of what you dread ; but courage and 
good conduct will help you to drive the pes- 
tilence from your door. That it doth exist 
amongst us, I wouldl could doubt ; and this 
is how I came at the knowledge of it. Hear 
ing that there was a poor family visited witn 
a sudden sickness, of which some were lik« 



28 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



to die had they not help presently, I speeded 
thither with what medicine I usually carry 
on such occasions knowing them to he of 
special benefit in divers disorders. In a low 
cottage, ruinous, and exceeding dirty, I came 
upon the sufferers. As God me save, I 
there saw a sight such as I have not seen in 
my whole life before ; and trust in Jesu 
never to see again. I entered at the kitchen, 
where, in one corner, on a litter of rushes, I 
beheld one dead, the father of this wretched 
family, and, by his side, his wife in the last 
agonies ; the fixed stare of whose yellow 
eyeballs settling into death, I saw at a 
glance made all help of medicine out of the 
case. A babe was crawling on the floor 
towards her ; but it had a sickly look with 
it that was ghastly to see. In another cor- 
ner was a young girl dead also, her fair face 
getting to be discolored and unsightly ; and 
in a chair was a boy who, by his dress, I 
knew was used to labor in the fields, and he 
complained he felt so deadly bad he could 
not return to his work. I went into another 
chamber, where was the old grannam, lying 
upon a truckle bed, moaning terribly, but 
saying nought ; and doubled up at her feet 
was the figure of another ancient dame, who 
had been her nurse till she dropped where 
she was, and could not be got to move hand 
or foot. I was informed, by a charitable 
neighbor who came in with me, that this ill- 
ness had only appeared amongst them since 
the preceding night, soon after unpacking of 
a parcel they had received by the carrier 
from some friends in London. On hearing 
this I had a sudden misgiving, for I had re- 
ceived certain intelligence the day previous, 
that the pestilence had broke out there. My 
heart was too full to speak ; and when I was 
further told, that in addition to the inmates 
of the cottage, sundry of the neighbors who 
had called in, hearing of their sickness, had 
been taken with a like disorder, one of whom 
had given up the ghost not half an hour 
since, my suspicion took firmer ground. 
Presently I examined one of the dead. My 
fears then received terrible confirmation. 
The plague spot was upon him. Having 
given such orders as I thought necessary, 
without exciting any alarm, I fumigated 
myself well, and acquainted my good friend, 
John Shakspeare, with the fearful truth ; 
and by his advice you have been called here 
to take instant measure:? to prevent the 
spreading of this direful calamity. In what- 
soever thing I may be of service at this un- 
happy time, I pray you use me as one friend 
would use another. Believe me, I will do it 
lovingly, whatever may be required." 
Though the speaker concluded what he 



had tr say, for some moments' spac« nonft 
sought to interrupt the awful silence which 
followed, but sat like so many statues of fear 
with eyes almost starting from their sockets, 
mouths partly open, and big drops of perspi- 
ration standing upon their wrinkled fore- 
heads. Of the most terrified was the little 
lawyer upon the stool, who, leaning his el- 
bows on the table, and with his pointed chin 
resting upon his palms, kept his sharp eyes 
fixed upon John a Combe, looking more 
frightened as the other proceeded in his nar- 
ration, till he gave voice to his consternation 
in an audible groan. Presently, some began 
to turn their gaze from Master Combe to 
each other, and finding in every face the hor- 
ror so visible in their own, they remained 
stupified and bewildered, till one nigh unto 
the door rushed out, and with the look of one 
struck with a sudden frenzy, ran home, shout- 
ing at the top of his voice, " The plague ! the 
plague !" and many others of that assembly, 
put out of all discretion by the greatness of 
their fear, made from the place with as much 
speed of foot as they could use, in the hope 
of securing the safety of themselves and fa- 
milies. They that were left then proceeded 
to take counsel among themselves what was 
fittest to be done ; and Master Combe, being 
invited by them to assist in their delibera- 
tions, did give such excellent advice, that it 
was agreed to by all, with wonderful admira- 
tion of his wisdom and greatness of heart ; 
and they sat for several hours making reso- 
lutions in accordance with what he had pro- 
posed. 

" I cannot hear of a denial," said Master 
Combe to John Shakspeare, as they were re- 
turning together from the hall. " This can 
be now no proper place for your sweet wife 
and her young son, or any of her family. 
Stay they here, it must be at the hazard of 
their lives, for none can say who shall escape 
whilst if they seek refuge in my poor dwell- 
ing till the danger hath passed, they need 
have communication with none, and so shall, 
be in no peril." 

" In honest truth, I like it well, Master 
Combe, and am "much beholden to you for 
your friendly care," replied his companion. 
" Yet am I fearful "of accepting of your cour- 
tesy, thinking it may put you to inconveni- 
ence, and to some danger also." 

" Speak not of it, an' you love me," said 
the other, with a very sincere earnestness ; 
" it is at your entire disposal, as long as it 
may be at your need. As for myself, this is 
my place. Whilst so many of my neighbors 
are in such imminent peril, here will I remain 
to do them whatever office may be expedient 
for their good." 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



29 



•An' if it please you, worthy sir, I will as- 
sist you with what humble ability I have," 
added John Shakspeare ; " I will take order 
that my dame and her babe proceed forthwith, 
with their attendants, to the security pro- 
vided for them ; for which sweet kindness I 
and mine shall feel bound to you ever after, 
and will make provision for her having all 
things necessary ; and then I will hold my- 
self in readiness to do whatsoever you shall 
think fittest." 

" I would accept of no help in this matter 
sooner than your own," answered Master 
Combe ; " knowing your thorough honesty 
and well disposedness, as I do ; yet, methinks 
you shall find sufficient in this strait to watch 
over the safety of those dearest to you, and 
cannot advisedly, when they are looking to 
vou for help, put your life in jeopardy for the 
security of others." 

" Nay, by your leave, Master Combe, 
Jiough I am no scholar, I cannot allow of 
.hat," exclaimed John Shakspeare, with some 
eagerness ; methinks my duty to my neigh- 
bors calleth me to their assistance when they 
shall require it of me, quite as loudly as it 
may yourself." 

" But forget you how many are dependant 
on your exertions for an honest living, which 
is not my case," answered his companion. 

" I will see to their safety, and I will look 
with as much care as I may to my own," said 
the other earnestly ; " but, in mine own opi- 
nion, I should be deserving of the good will 
of none, were I to slink away when danger 
was at the heels of my friends, and leave 
them to stand it as they might, whilst I cared 
only for the safety of myself and what be- 
longed to me." 

" Your hand, honest John Shakspeare !" 
cried Master Combe, shaking his friend's 
hand very heartily in his own. " Believe me, 
I love you all the better for having such no- 
tions. But I must down this lane," conti- 
nued he, as they stood together at the corner. 
I beseech you hasten your sweet wife as 
much as you can, that she may out of the 
town with as little delay as need be at such a 
time, and I will with all convenient speed to 
my house to prepare for her reception. A fair 
good night to you, neighbor." 

" God speed you, worthy sir, in all you 
do !" exclaimed the other, with the same 
friendly feeling, as Master Combe proceeded 
on his way. " There wends as good a man 
as ever broke bread !" continued he, when the 
object of his praise was out of hearing ; and 
he stood where he was for some minutes, 
sailing on his staff", with his honest heart 
full of admiration, watching the progress of 
his companion, till a turning of the lane hid 



him from his view. It was now just up on 
twilight, and the lane being bordered by tall 
trees, closely planted and in their fullest foli- 
age, a great portion of it was in deep shadow : 
but this seemed only to make more fresh and 
vivid the high bank on the other side which 
led up into a cornfield, whereof the rich yel- 
low ears, and the crimson poppies blushing 
beneath them, as seen in every gap of the 
hedge, gave promise of abundant harvest : 
and the hedge, being of elder in great patches 
of blossom, looked at a distance like unto 
pure white linen a drying on the green 
branches. John a Combe, as he walked 
along, noticing the quick movements of the 
bats, whirling here and there in quest of such 
insects as formed their victual, on a sudden 
had his eye attracted by a gleam of light on 
the opposite bank, which at first he took to 
be a glow-worm, but the next moment distin- 
guished a large black mass moving in the 
deep shadow ; the which he had scarce made 
out to be the figure of a man, when two men, 
armed and masked, rushed upon him from 
that very spot. As quick as lightning his 
rapier was out and he on his defence. A 
muttered execration was all he heard, as they 
came upon him both at once, in such a sort 
as proved they would have his life if they 
could. John a Combe was on the brink of a 
dry ditch, and within a few yards of a gate 
leading to the cornfield, over against which 
was an opening in the trees that gave a fair 
light to see all around ; and for this he made, 
defending himself the whilst so briskly, that 
neither of his opponents could get him at an 
advantage. Here having got himself with- 
out hurt of any kind, he put his back to the 
gate, and now, seeing that he had before him 
two stout varlets in masks, who pressed on 
him as though they would not be baffled in 
their aims, he presently put forth what cun- 
ning of fence he had, and so nimble was his 
steel, and so quick his movements, that he 
avoided every thrust. This, however, only 
seemed to make them the more savage and 
desperate, and they pressed closer upon him. 
What might have been the end on't, had 
things gone on, I cannot take on me to deter- 
mine ; but the conflict was stopped much 
sooner than was expected of any, for one of 
the tv/o was felled to the earth from an un- 
seen hand, and the other varle* at the same 
moment got such a thrust in his wrist ag 
made him incapable of any mischief. 

" Lie there, caitiff!" exclaimed John Shak- 
speare, who, loitering at the top of the lane, 
had heard the clash of the weapons, and has- 
tening to the spot had come in time to deal 
a blow with his staff that rid his friend of the 
fiercest of his assailants. " Lie there for a 



30 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



pitiful coward, and a knave to boot. I doubt 
not hanging be too good for thee, thou mur- 
derous villain, to seek the life of one of so 
excellent a nature. But thou hast not done 
amiss in hiding of thy face, for I warrant we 
shall find rascal writ in every line of it. As 
I live, Master Buzzard !" cried he, in some 
surprise, as he took off the mask of him he 
had knocked clown. 

" And here have we no bigger a villain to 
help him than his man Saul !" exclaimed 
John a Combe, as he tore off the visor of the 
other. Master Buzzard came to himself pre- 
sently, for he was but little hurt, and finding 
he had been completely baffled, he said never 
a word. As soon as he regained his footing, 
with a look of devilish malignity he took him- 
self off, leaving his man to follow as he best 
might. Neither received hindrance from 
Master Combe or his trusty friend, who were 
in truth monstrous glad to be rid of the com- 
pany of such thorough paced villains. 



CHAPTER IV. 

And what's a life 1 A weary pilgrimage, 
Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage 
With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. 
And what's a life ? The flourishing array 
Of the proud summer meadow, which, to-day, 
Wears her green plush, and is to-movrow — hay. 

Quarles. 

How now ! Ah me ! 

God and all saints be good to us ! 

Ben Jonson. 

Death may usurp on nature many hours, 
And yet the fire of life kindle again 
The overpressed spirits. 

Shakspeare. 

The house of John a Combe, so hand- 
somely offered by him for the reception of 
Dame Shakspeare and her infant son, lay 
about a mile from Stratford, the nighest way 
across the fields ; and had been built some 
twenty years in a famous quaint pretty style, 
with projecting gables, curiously formed and 
carved ; a latticed porch, whereon all man- 
ner of delicate flowers were climbing very 
daintily, and it was enclosed with its garden 
in a high wall that had iron gates, in an arch- 
way in front, from which a broad path led on 
each side of a well-kept lawn right up to the 
house. 

Dame Shakspeare had a famous fire of 
good logs burning in her chamber, the light 
whereof shewed the goodly hangings of the 
bed, and rich arras brought from beyond seas 
that were about the wainscot, with all the 



store of needful furniture in high presses 
cupboards, chairs, tables, and the like, ex 
quisitely carved in choice woods that stood 
around her on every side. The good dame, 
clad in a simple long garment of linen that 
wrapt her all around, sat at some short dis- 
tance from the fire-dogs, knitting of a pair 
of hose, whilst over against her sat nurse 
Cicely, with the babe in her lap, the front of 
his white frock hid under a dowlas cloth, 
that was carefully tucked under his chin, 
feeding him with a pap-spoon. Nurse talked 
on without ceasing, gossipping to the mother 
and prattling to the babe, all in a breath ; 
but Dame Shakspeare scarce spoke a^vord. 
Indeed, her thoughts were in a strange mis- 
giving humor, fearing for the present, and 
doubting of the future, till her eye would 
light on her sweet son ; and then noticing of 
his exceeding happiness at what he was 
about, her aspect would catch a sudden 
brightness, and mayhap she would say some- 
thing is if there was nought to trouble her. 

" Of those who are dead some say there 
is no knowing for the number," continued 
nurse. " They die out of all calculation ; 
not here and there one, as in honest fashion 
they should, but everywhere scores. Hum- 
phrey heard at the gate, of Oliver Dumps, 
that they went so fast, it was supposed there 
would soon be none left to tend the sick. — 
Ods lifelings, what an appetite thou hast !" 
added she, as she kept feeding of the child. 
" Beshrew my heart, but thou wouldst eat up 
house and home kept thou this fashion at all 
times. Well, it's all one. They that are 
dead cannot help themselves ; and for the 
living they must trust in God's mercy. How 
now, chuck ? What, more ! Well, heaven 
send thee good store of victuals ! By my 
troth, methinks Master Combe shall deserve 
well of us all our days. As for myself, I 
wish I could know the service I might do his 
worship, I would not spare my old bones, I 
promise you. He hath been a mean for the 
preserving of our lives, that be a sure thing ; 
for it standeth to reason, had we remained in 
the town, we should have been no better than 
loathsome corpses long since." 

Dame Shakspeare replied not ; but her na 
ture was too forcibly impressed with the 
load of obligation she lay under, not to as- 
sent to all her attendant would express on 
that point. 

" And thou hast especial reason to be 
thankful to him, my young master," con- 
tinued the old woman to her charge ; " by'r 
lady, thou hadst best make haste to be a 
man, and shew his worship how grateful of 
heart thou art for his goodness. And then 
to put us all in so delectable a place as 



I 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEaIIE. 



81 



this," added she, looking round the chamber 
in evident admiration. " O' my life, 'tis a 
house fit for a prince, and it hath in it every 
thing that heart could desire. This is his 
worship's own bed-chamber, as I have heard. 
Happy the woman who shall have the own- 
ing of it, say I ! I protest when I hear how 
nobly he hath borne himself throughout the 
dreadful raging of this doleful pestilence, I 
ion clean lost in wonder and astonishment 
at his infinite goodness." 

" Surely, nurse, it must be somewhat be- 
yond the time they usually come ?" here ex- 
claimed Dame Shakspeare ; " I hope nought 
amiss hath happened to either, and yet I 
fear. Alack, it would go hard with me 
were I to lose my husband; and Master 
Combe hath showed himself so true a friend 
I could not but grieve at his loss. I pray 
God, very heartily, both are safe." 

" Amen !" said the nurse very devoutly. 
" But keep up a good heart, I pray you, 
mistress. I would wager my life on't no 
harm shall happen to them. They must 
needs be much too useful to be spared when 
such pitiful work is going forward. But 
concerning of the time of their usual com- 
ing, I cannot think it hath yet arrived, 
though mayhap it shall be found to be no 
great way off. Peradventure, rest you pati- 
ent awhile, you shall hear Humphrey give 
us note of their approach before long. Ha ! 
my young rogue!" continued she, address- 
ing the babe, and fondling him very prettily, 
upon finding he would take no more of her 
food. " I warrant me now thou hast had a 
famous meal ! Art not ashamed to devour 
6uch monstrous quantities, when victual is 
so scarce to be had ? O' my conscience, he 
laughed in my very face ! By your pati- 
ence, mistress, this son of yours is no other 
than a very horrible young reprobate, for he 
seemeth to care for nought when he hath all 
that he standeth in need of." 

" Bless his dear heart !" cried the much 
delighted mother, rousing up from her me- 
lancholy at sight of her babe's enjoyment. 
" It glads me more than I can speak to see 
him looking so hearty, and in so rare a 
humor. But I must to the casement, I am 
impatient of this seeming long delay ;" and 
so saying she suddenly rose from her seat, 
and made for the window, a broad casement 
which looked out over the porch, for the 
chamber was above the ground-floor, and 
opening it she leaned out to watch for her 
husband. The night had set in, though it 
was scarce eight of the clock ; but being the 
latter end of October that was no marvel. 
Dark clouds were floating heavily in the 
•ky, and the trees, though half denuded of 



their foliage, made a famous rustling as the 
wind came sweeping among their branches. 
Every thing looked indistinct and shadowy 
within the range of sight, and beyond, all 
seemed as though closely wrapt up in a 
shroud. Certes, to one of Dame Shakspeare's 
disposition, the prospect around must have 
appeared wonderful melancholy, and it gave 
a chill to her heart that filled her with mon- 
strous disquietude. All was in perfect silence 
and solitude, save down below, where Hum- 
phrey, armed with a rusty harquebus, was 
marching to and fro within the gate, of 
which station he was exceeding proud, as 
was manifest; for, immediately he caught 
sight of his mistress at the casement, he 
held his piece firm to his side, made himself 
look as tall as" he might, and with a terrible 
valorous countenance, as he supposed, con- 
tinued to walk backwards and forwards at 
his post. 

" Hast seen any thing, Humphrey ?" in- 
quired Dame Shakspeare. 

" Yes, mistress, an'it please you," replied 
he, stopping short in his walk, and holding 
of himself as upright as any dart. " I have 
seen old Grammer Lambswool's two sandy 
colored pigs making for home with all the 
speed of foot they were master of." 

" Psha ! hast seen any thing of thy mas- 
ter ?" added the good dame. 

" No, mistress," answered he. 

" Hast seen ought of Master Combe ?'-' 

" No, mistress." 

Hearing no further questioning; Hum- 
phrey continued his marching ; and his mis- 
tress, in no way satisfied with his intelligence, 
remained at the casement silent and ab- 
stracted. She could hear nurse Cicely 
walking up and down the chamber, evidently 
by her speech and occasional humming striv- 
ing to get the boy into a sleep. 

" Well, never saw I the like!" exclaimed 
Cicely, in tones of such monstrous astonish- 
ment as drew the mother's attention in an 
instant. " Instead of getting into a good 
sound sleep as I was assured thou hadst 
fallen into, I know not how long since, here 
art thou as wide awake as am 1, and listen- 
ing to my poor singing with a look as if thy 
very heart was in it." Certes, it was as the 
nurse had said. The babe lay in her arms, 
seeming in such strange wonder and de- 
lights as surely no babe ever showed before. 
Even Dame Shakspeare marveled somewhat 
to note the amazed smiling aspect of her 
young son. 

" By my fay !" continued the old woman, 
" if this babe come not to be some great mas- 
ter of music, I am hugely mistaken in him. 
I remember me now, this is the first time ] 



82 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEaiie. 



have chanced to sing in his hearing. — Marry, 
an' if his worship be so taken with my music, 
I warrant me he shall have a rare plenty of 
it, for I have as famous a store of ballads as 
any woman in Warwickshire." 

" I doubt not they will be well liked of 
him, judging of the manner he hath taken the 
first he hath heard," observed his mother. 

At this moment there was heard such 
horrible unnatural screaming and strange 
uproar, that made Dame Shakspeare, more 
full of misgiving than ever, rushed back to the 
casement with as much speed as she could 
use. The first object that met her eye was 
no other than Humphrey, half lying on the 
ground, supporting himself with one arm, 
and one leg doubled under him, and with 
the other hand holding in his trembling 
grasp the harquebus he made so brave a 
show with a few minutes since. He was 
shaking in every limb; his hat had fallen 
off, leaving his face the more visible, which 
bore an aspect of the completest fright ever 
seen. His eyes were starting forward, his 
cheeks pale, and his mouth half open, one 
jaw knocking against the other as hard as 
they could. Turning her gaze in the direc- 
tion in which the boy was staring, as if in- 
capable of moving away his eyes, though 
for a single instant, she saw a sight the hor- 
ribleness of which made her scream out- 
right. It was a spectral figure at the gate, 
with long bare arms and legs, all livid and 
gastly, and a face that seemed more terrible 
to look on than death itself. The pesti- 
lence in its worst stage was apparent in 
every feature ; and the glaring eye, blue 
skin, gaunt jaw, and ragged beard, were 
more distinguishable for the sheet in which 
the head and part of the body were wrapped. 
He shook the iron bars of the gate as if he 
• would have them down, and tried to climb 
them, all the whilst giving out such piercing 
shrieks as made the blood run cold to hear. 
" Jesu preserve the child !" exclaimed the 
terrified mother. 

"Flames and the rack !". shouted a hollow 
sepulchral voice, as he shook the iron bars 
again and again. " Hell rages in my every 
vein ! Fires eat into my heart ! O mercy !" 
Then arose another scream more wild and 
piercing than any that had preceded it, and 
the poor wretch flung his head about, and 
twisted his limbs, as if in the horriblest torture. 
• Drive him away, good Humphrey !" 
cried Dame Shakspeare, the sense of her 
child's danger overcoming all other feelings 
in her. 

" Ye — ye — ye — yes, mistress !" answered 
Humphrey as plainly as his fright would 
allow him, but moved he never an inch. 



"Oh, good God!" shrieked the disessed 
man in his phrenzy. " Oh, the Infinite . 
Great One ! Thif '.s the day of doom ! Hide 
— hide, ye wicked ! — the ministers of judg- 
ment compass ye all about. There is no 
'scape from the co. ; suming fire. It scorches 
my flesh — it burneth my bones to ashes. 
Ah !" and again the same horrible yell pierced 
the air as he writhed under his pains. 

" Humphrey, I say, drive him away, I 
prithee !" cried the frightened mother more 
earnestly than at first. " Alack ! if he 
should break in now we are clean lost !" 

" Ye — ye — yes, mistress," muttered Hum- 
phrey, but he sought not to move either his 
eyes from the man, or his limbs from the 
ground. However, it did so fall out, that 
the terrible cause of all their fear, after 
spending of his strength in vainly essaying 
to shake down the gates, screaming and 
calling after the fashion that hath been told, 
in the height of his frenzy fell from the 
place he had climbed to down to the hard 
ground within the walls, where, after twist- 
ing himself about for some few seconds in 
the horriblest contortions, and shrieking as if 
in the last agonies, he finally lay stiff, silent, 
and manifestly dead. 

" Humphrey ! Humphrey ! get you in 
doors this instant," exclaimed his mistress 
in a manner as though she scarce knew 
what she said. Then wringing of her hands 
exceeding pitifully, exclaimed in a low voice, 
" Woe is me ! the plague will be upon us, 
and no remedy." 

Dame Shakspeare had called to Humphrey 
many times, and though he answered her at 
first, he paid but small attention to her com- 
mands; but when the frightful object got 
within the walls, he did nought but keep re- 
garding of his motions with an uneasy stare, 
as if his wits had clean gone ; and now his 
mistress again called to him, he moved not, 
nor spoke a word, nor gave any sign, save 
the loud chattering of his teeth, that he was 
one of the living. Presently there was heard 
the sound as of sundry persons, running, and 
ere any very long time there appeared at the 
gate 'divers of the town watch, and others, 
with torches and lanterns, armed with long 
staves and other weapons. 

" Get you in, dame, I pray you, and shut 
to the casement," cried Master Combe from 
among them. 

" In with you, in God's name, or you are 
lost!" almost at the same moment of time 
shouted John Shakspeare ; and h : s wife, 
with a hurried ejaculation of her great com- 
fort at hearing of their voices, did as sho 
was bid, and sunk into a chair more dead 
than alive. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



33 



" I would rather have given a thousand I 
pounds than he should have escaped," said 
Master Combe. " I pray God no harm come 
of it to your sweet wife and children." 

" I cannot help but fear, the peril is so 
great," replied John Shakspeare in a some- 
what desponding tone. 

" Lord ha' mercy upon us !" muttered a 
voice not far off of them. 

"As I live, 'tis my knave Humphrey!" 
exclaimed his master, looking through the 
bars of the gate. " Why how now ! what 
art doing there ? Get thee in by the back 
way on the instant, and stir not while we 
are gone." 

" La, what, be that you, master, indeed ?" 
cried out Humphrey with a sort of foolish 
joy, as he recognized the voice. 

" Get thee in, I tell thee !" replied the 
other sharply, and Humphrey not caring to 
take another look at .the dead man, walked 
himself off, and soon disappeared behind the 
house ; whereupon his master with a key he 
had, opened the gate, and by the directions 
of Master Combe, the corpse was presently 
placed upon a hand-barrow and carried 
away by the watchmen ; then a fire of dry 
sticks was made on the spot where it had 
fallen, in which certain aromatics were 
flung, which made a cloud of smoke that 
filled the air all round about for a great 
space. After it had burned some time, 
John Shakspeare called to his wife that she 
might ope the casement, and she waited no 
second calling. Then passed they nigh 
upon an hour in very comfortable discourse 
one with another, as if it was a customary 
thing of them, she leaning out of the cham- 
ber, and her husband and worthy Master 
Combe standing upon the lawn beneath, 
closely wrapped up in long cloaks, and car- 
rying lighted torches in their hands. 

" I cannot express to you how glad I am 
lo hear of the abating of the pestilence," 
said Dame Shakspeare. " 'Tis the pleasant- 
est news I have heard this many a day. 
But think you it may be relied on ?" 

" I have taken the very surest means of 

S roving its perfect credibleness," answered 
laster Combe. 
" Not so many have died of it to-day by 
twenty as died yesterday," added her hus- 
band ; " and yesterday we buried ten less 
than the day before." 

" I am infinitely thankful !" exclaimed she 
in a famous cheerfulness. " I heartily pray 
it may continue so." 

" So do we all, sweet dame," answered 
Master Combe. " And I have good assu- 
rance, now we are blessed with the prayers 
of one so worthy, we cannot help but speed 



in our endeavors. But the night wears on 
apace. I pray you pardon me for hurrying 
away your husband. O' my life I would not 
do it, only we have that to look to this night, 
which cannot be done without him." 

" Ay, Dame, we must be going," added her 
husband. " So a good sweet rest to thee, 
and kiss my boy lovingly for me I prithee." 

" That will I dear heart, without fail," 
answered she. " And a fair good night to 
you both, and may God above preserve you 
in all perils." 

K Good night, sweet dame, and infinite 
thanks for your kind wishes," said Master 
Combe ; and then he and his associated left 
the house, locking the gates after them; 
and proceeded straight to the town. 

Now was there a wonderful difference in 
this town of Stratford to what it had been 
only a few months since, when I sought the 
picturing of it ; for in place of all the pleasant 
riot of children and general gossiping of 
neighbors, all was dumb as a churchyard ; 
save at intervals, the wail of the sorrowful 
or the shriek of the dying disturbed the 
awful stillness. Scarce a living creature 
was to be seen excepting the watchman 
keeping guard, to whom divers of the un- 
happy burgesses would talk to out of their 
windows, inquiring who of their friends were 
yet spared, or one or two having been close 
prisoners in their own houses, would creep 
stealthily along the street to breathe the 
fresher air, looking about them suspiciously 
and in great dread, and ready to fly at any 
unusual sound ; and instead of the sun 
throwing its warm beams upon the house- 
tops and other open places, there was a sul- 
len darkness everywhere about, except just 
where one earned a torch or a lantern with 
him, which made a faint red light therea- 
bouts, or when the moon burst out of the 
deep black clouds, and disclosed to view tha 
deserted streets grown over with patches of 
rank grass ; the melancholy houses, — many 
untenanted because of the pestilence having 
spared none there, — divers with a red cross 
upon their doors in evidence that the plague 
had there found a victim, and the rest with 
doors and windows carefully barred and 
lights streaming through the closed shutters 
— a glad sign that there at least none had 
yet fallen. 

John Shakspeare and Master Combe, 
closely wrapped in their cloaks, entered the 
principal street just as the moon made a 
clear path for herself in the sky, and threw 
such a light as made them distinguish objects 
for the time almost as well as in broad day. 
The first person they met was no othei 



34 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



than Oliver Dumps, armed with a bill, and 
wearing a face so wo-begone as was pitiful 
to look on. 

"Well Oliver, what news?" inquired 
Master Combe. 

" News !" exclaimed the constable in his 
dolefullest manner. "Prithee what news 
canst expect to hear at such a miserable 
time ? As I am a Christian man, and a sin- 
ful, I am nigh worn out with melancholly. 
What a world is this ! Alack, what will be- 
come of us f I see no end to the evil where- 
of this town is so full. We are all villainy 
— very villainy, as I am a Christian man." 

"Why what hath happened, good Oli- 
ver?" asked John Shakspeare. 

"Wickedness hath happened," replied 
Oliver Dumps; "the veiy shamefullest 
wickedness ever I came a nigh. Well may 
we be visited by plagues. Our natures are 
vile. We run after iniquity as a curtail 
dog runs i' the wheel." Then, being further 
pressed by Master Combe to come to the 
point, he added, " First, there is Sir Nathan- 
iel, who will not be moved to do any good 
office for the sick; and Master Buzzard, 
who, setteth his dogs at me, should I venture 
to ask of him to assist his poor neighbors. 
Then Stripes is ever getting of money from 
a parcel of ignorant wretched folk to con- 
jure the pestilence away from their houses ; 
added to which, no longer ago than scarce 
the half of an hour, I came upon Simon 
Lumpfish and Jonathan Swiggle, two of the 
town watch, in the kitchen of an empty 
dwelling, making use of a barrel of strong 
beer without any color of warrant, by each 
laying of his length on the floor, and put- 
ting of his mouth to the bung-hole." 

" They shall be looked to," observed Mas- 
ter Combe ; " but come you with us, good 
Oliver, perchance we may need your assis- 
tance." Then turning to one of the watch, 
who was stationed at a door-way, he in- 
quired how things went in his ward. 

" One hath died within this hour over at 
Peter Gimblet's, an' it please your worship," 
answered the man respectfully ; " and there 
are two sick here at Dame Holloway's. 
They do say that Morris Greenfinch be like 
to recover ; and in some houses hereabouts, 
where the plague hath been, they have 
taken it so kindly that it hath scarce been 
felt." 

After bidding of him keep strict watch, 
they continued their walk; and presently 
heard a voice of one calling across the way 
to bis neighbor opposite. 

u How goeth all with you ?" 

" We are all well, thanks be to God ! 
neighbor Malmsey. And how fareth your 



bed-fellow ?" replied one from a casement 
over against him. 

" Bravely, neighbor Dowlas, I thank you," 
said his brother alderman ; " they do say 
there is some show of the pestilence abating ; 
I would it were true, else shall we be all 
ruined for a surety. 1 have not so much as 
sold a pint of wine for the last week past." 

" Nor I a yard of cloth, for a month," 
added the other. " I pray God, the survi- 
vors may have the decency to go into 
mourning for their lost relations." 

" And so your good dame is well, neigh- 
bor ?" asked Alderman Malmsey. 

" As well as heart could wish," replied 
Alderman Dowlas. 

" Commend me to her, I pray you," said 
the other ;^ and then with a " good night," 
each closed his casement. Upon proceed- 
ing a little further on, the party were stop- 
ped by the melodious sweet sound of several 
voices, intent upon the singing of some holy 
hymn. Perchance it might have ^proceeded 
from some pious family; for in the quiet 
night, the ear could plainly enough distin- 
guish the full deep bass of the father, join- 
ing with the clear sweet trebles of his wife 
and children. And exceeding touching it 
was at such a time to hear such proper 
singing ; indeed, so moved were the three 
listeners, that they sought not to leave the 
spot till it was ended. 

" That be David Hurdle's voice, I will 
be bound for it," exclaimed the Constable. 
" Indeed, it be well known he hath, during 
the raging of the pestilence, spent best part 
of the day in praying with his family, ana 
in the singing of godly hymns. He is a 
poor man — some call him a Puritan, but I 
do believe him to be as honest good Chris- 
tian man as any one in this town, be they 
rich or poor, gentle or simple. But what 
villainous rude uproar is this, my masters ! 
that treadeth so close on the heels of such 
exquisite music ?" 

1 'faith, Oliver Dumps had good cause to 
cry out as he did ; for all at once they were 
startled by a number of most unmannerly 
voices, shouting in very boisterous fashion 
such profane words as these : — 

" If we boast not a fire, 

That is just our desire — 

What then ? We must needs burn the bellows ; 

And if here there's a man 

That hath nought in his can — 

What then? He's the prince of good fellows." 

"Odds, my life !" exclaimed a voice that 
was heard, amid the din of laughing and 
shouting, and other lewd behavior. " Odd% 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



35 



my life, that is as exquisite a catch as ever 
I heard. Methinks, 'tis the very movinest, 
mirthfullest a . What sayest Tickle- 
breech ?" 

" Exactly, so, an' it please your rever- 
ence," replied the voice of the schoolmaster, 
in a tone somewhat husky. 

" By'r lady, master parson," said another, 
" methinks 'tis of that superlative exquisite- 
ness 'twould tickle — (a hiccup) the ribs of 
a tombstone." 

Master Combe, and his companions, 
peeped through the crevices of the shutters, 
and beheld Sir Nathaniel seated at the head 
of a table covered with drinking vessels, 
with Stripes opposite him, and nigh upon a 
score of low idle disorderly vagabonds sit- 
ting round making merry, but with mon- 
strous little assurance of sobriety in their 
looks. 

" Lord ! Lord ! an' these fellows be not 
heathens, I marvel what they shall rightly 
be called," said the scandalized constable. 

" It grieves me to see Sir Nathaniel so 
Teadily accommodate himself to such dis- 
creditableness," observed John Shakspeare. 

"'Slight!" exclaimed Master Combe, 
whose nature was vexed to behold such a 
scene with such actors in it ; " he is a very 
hog that will swill any wash that is given 
him, let it be where it may." 

The ringing of a large hand-bell now at- 
tracted their attention elsewhere ; and look- 
ing along the street, they observed a cart 
slowly proceeding towards them, accompa- 
nied by two or three stout fellows, some 
carrying torches, and others armed with 
bills. It stopped at a house where was a 
red cross on the door, at which having 
knocked, and the door opening, two stepped 
in, and presently returned, bearing of a 
heavy burden betwixt them, with the which 
they ascended a short ladder, and, without 
any word spoke, cast into the cart. Then 
ringing of the bell again they continued 
their way, till some door opening noiseless- 
ly, they stopped, entered, and with the same 
dreadful silence carried out, what on nearer 
approach, proved to be a corpse, which was 
added to the rest they had, in the manner 
that hath been described. 

"Hast taken many this round?" asked 
Master Combe, of one of the watchmen 
walking in front of the horse. 

"No, your worship, God be thanked," 
replied the man. 

" Hast many more to take ?" asked John 
Shakspeare. 

" I expect not master," said the other. 
Indeed, from all I have witnessed and can 



get knowledge of, it seemeth to me the pes- 
tilence be abating wonderfully." 

" God send it may come to a speedy end- 
ing," excaimed Oliver Dumps, with some 
earnestness ; it maketh me clean out ot 
heart when I think of what ravage it hath 
made." 

The three now walked at the horse's 
head, conversing concerning of who had 
died, and who were sick, and the like mat- 
ters, stopping when the cart stopped, and 
going on when it proceeded ; but always 
keeping before the horse, because of the 
wind blowing from that direction. At one 
house the men remained longer than was 
usual, and the door being open, there was 
heard a great cry of lamentation as of a 
woman in terrible affliction. 

" Ah, poor dame, she hath infinite cause 
for such deep grieving," said the constable. 

" Go, get you hence !" cried one very ur- 
gently from within the house. " As God 
shall judge me, he shall not be touched." 

"What meaneth this?" inquired John 
Shakspeare. 

" I say it shall not be," continued the 
same voice. " I will die ere I will let him 
be borne away from me. Hast hearts? 
Hast feelings ? Dost know of what stuff a 
mother's love be made ? Away villains." 

" 'Tis a most pitiful story," observed Mas- 
ter Combe. Wondrous pitiful ! in sooth, 
she hath been sorely tried. But I must in, 
else in her desperation she will allow of no- 
thing ; and mayhap they may be violent 
with her." 

"What wouldst do?" inquired John 
Shakspeare, catching his friend by the arm, 
as he was making for the door. " Surely, 
if there is one dead here, you will only be 
endangering of yourself by venturing in, 
and no good come of it to any." 

" I pray you think not of it," cried Oliver 
Dumps, seeming in famous consternation. 
" There hath more died in that house than 
in any two in the town." 

"Fear nothing; I will be back anon," 
said Master Combe, as he broke away and 
entered at the open door. 

"Alack, think not of following him, I 
pray you, John Shakspeare !" called out the 
constable, in increased alarm, as he beheld 
the one quickly treading upon the heels of 
the other. " Well, never saw I such wan- 
ton seeking of death. They be lost men. 
'Twill be dangerous to be in their company 
after this; so I'll e'en have none on't." 
And away started he in the direction of his 
home. In the mean while the other two 
reached an inner chamber, where was a 
sight to see that would have melted any 



36 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



■tone. On a low bed there sat a matronly 
woman, of decent appearance, with an as- 
pect pale and exceeding careworn, and her 
eyes full of such thorough anguish as is- 
utterly impossible to be described ; and she 
held, folded in her arms, the body of a youth 
seeming to be dead of the pestilence. 

" The last !" exclaimed she, in most mov- 
ing tones, as she fixed her tearful gaze on 
the discolored object in her lap. " Husband 
— children — all gone, despite my tender 
nursing, and constant hope this one might 
be spared, and now that — each followed the 
other, and here am I — woe is me ! — widow- 
ed, childless, and heart-broken. Alack, 'tis 
a cruel world !" And thereupon she sobbed 
in such a sort as could not be seen of any 
with dry eyes. 

" But they shall never take thee from me, 
my dear boy," continued she in a like piti- 
ful manner. " Heretofore I have borne all 
and flinched none ; but thou hast been my 
last stay, whereon all the love 1 bore thy 
good father and thy brave brothers, was 
heaped together ; and losing thee, I lose my 
very heart and soul ; so, quick or dead, I 
will cling to thee whilst J have life. Away ! 
insatiate wretches !" she cried, turning her 
mournful aspect upon the two men ; " Hast 
not had enough of me ? Dost not see how 
poor a case I am in for the lack of what I 
have been used to ? Begone !" And then 
she hugged the lifeless youth in her arms as 
if she would part with him on no account. 
Neither Master Combe or John Shakspeare 
felt as they were complete masters of them- 
selves ; but they knew it could not be proper 
that the dead should stay with the living. 

" Believe me, we sympathize in your great 
afflictions with all our hearts, good dame," 
at last observed the former to her, with that 
sweet courteousness which was so natural 
to him. " But I prajf you, have some pity 
on yourself, and be resigned to that which 
cannot be helped." 

"Ah, Master Combe!" cried she, now 
first observing him, " I would I could say 
I am glad to see you ; for, in truth you 
have been an excellent good friend to me 
and mine in our greatest need ; but as it 
seemeth to me my heart's strings be so upon 
the stretch, 'twould be but a mockery to say 
so, Oh, the misery !" and then she bowed her 
head and wept exceedingly. At this Master 
Combe endeavored all he could to give her 
comfort ; and as his speech was wonderfully 
to the purpose, though at first she was deaf 
to all argument of the sort, by degrees he 
won her to some show of reason. 

" But he shall not be touched !" she ex- 
elaimed, mournfully, yet determinedly. 



" Who so proper to carry him out of tha 
world as she who brought him in it ? I will 
have no rude hand laid on his delicate 
limbs. I will to the grave with him myself. 
Alaek ! poor boy, how my heart aches to 
look at thee !" Then carefully wiping oflf 
the tears she had let fall upon his face, she 
proceeded to wrap him in a sheet, ever and 
anon giving of such deep sobs as showed in 
what extremity she was in. This Master 
Combe sought not to interrupt ; and John 
Shakspeare's honest nature was so moved 
at the scene, he had no mind to utter a 
word. Even the men, used as they must 
have been to sights of wretchedness, re- 
garded not what was going on in total in- 
differency, as was manifest in their aspects. 
But the movingest sight of all was to see 
that hapless mother, when she had disposed 
of her dead son as depently as she could, 
bearing the heavy burthen in her arms with 
a slow step, looking pale as any ghost, and 
in such terrible despair as can never be con- 
ceived. The men, as they led- the way with 
a lantern, were forced more than once, to 
draw the cuffs of their jerkins over their 
eyelids ; and Master Combe and John Shak- 
speare followed her, full of pity for her sor- 
rowful condition. She bore up bravely till 
she came to the door, when the sight of the 
dead-cart, made visible by the red glare of 
the torches, came upon her with such a sud- 
denness, that she swooned away, and would 
have fallen on the ground, had not Master 
Combe ran quickly and caught her in his 
arms. Then, by his direction, her dead son 
was placed with the other corpses, and she 
carried back to the room she had left ; and 
after seeing she had proper attendance, he 
and John Shakspeare proceeded with the 
watchman and others that had the care of 
the cart, calling nowhere else as they went 
in so doleful a humor that they spoke never 
a word all the way. They came to a field 
outside of the town, where was a great hole 
dug, and a large mound of fresh earth at the 
side of it. At this time, some of the men 
took in their hands mattocks which were 
stuck in the soil, others backed the cart so 
that the end of it should come as nigh as 
possible to the pit, and the rest held torches 
that the others might see the better. Scarce 
any spoke save Master Combe, who, in a 
low tone, gave such orders as were needed. 
Presently the cart was tilted, and in the 
next moment the bodies of those dead of the 
pestilence swept into the rude grave pre- 
pared for them. 

" By God's body, I heard a groan !" cried 
John Shakspeare, with a famous vehemence. 
In an instant there was so dead a sii«Mj« 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



37 



>->a might have heard a pin drop. What had 
b^en said was true enough, for ere another 
minute had elapsed, all there distinctly 
heard a sound of groaning come from the 
pit. Each of the men looked at his neigh- 
bor in silent terror, and speedily as they 
might brought their .torches to throw as 
much light as they could into the pit's 
mouth. 

" Alack ! I fear we have buried the living 
with the dead !" exclaimed Master Combe, 
evidently in a monstrous perplexity. Every 
eye was strained to note if any sign of life 
was visible amongst the mass below. What 
a sight was there presented to the horror- 
struck gazers ! Arms and legs and upturned 
faces that had burst from their frail cover- 
ings, all discolored and ghastly, looking more 
hideous than can be conceived. 

" As I live, something moveth in this cor- 
ner !" cried John Shakspeare. 

"Alight here, ho !" shouted Master Combe 
in a voice that brought every torch to the spot 
ere the words had scarce been uttered ; and 
all were breathless with expectation. To the 
extreme consternation of every _one there, 
Master Combe suddenly seized a torch out of 
the hands of one of the watch who was nigh- 
est to him, and leaped in amongst those foul 
bodies, close upon the spot pointed out by 
John Shakspeare. 

" Help all, if ye be Christian men ! " cried 
Master Combe, as if he was exceeding mov- 
ed, whilst those above were gazing down up- 
on him, bewildered with very fear. " Help, 
I pray you ! for here is the widow's son alive 
yet ; and if care be used without loss of time, 
perchance we shall have such good fortune 
as to restore him to her to be her comfort all 
her days." 

Methinks there needs no telling of what 
alacrity was used to get the youth out of the 
pit with all speed, every one forgetting of his 
danger in the excitement of the case. Suf- 
fice it to say, he was rescued from his ex- 
pected gnare before he had any conscious- 
ness of being there, and that such treatment 
was used as soon turned to his profit ; for he 
recovered, and grew to be hale soon. Of the 
infinite joy of the late bereaved mother, when 
that her dead son was restored alive to her 
loving arms, shall I not attempt to describe, 
for to my thinking, it is beyond the extremest 
tunning of the pen. 



CHAPTER V. 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 

Greene. 
flatterer false, thou traitor born, 
What mischief more might thou devise 
Than thy dear friend to have in scorn, 
And him to wound in sundry wise ? 
Which still a friend pretends to be, 
And art not so by proof I see. 
Fie, fie upon such treachery ! 
Wm. Hunnis. (Paradise of Dainiie Devices.) 
Who will not judge him worthy to be robbed, 
That sets his doors wide open to a thief, 
And shows the felon where his treasure lies 1" 
Ben Jonson. (Every Man in his Humor.) 

Time passed, and with it passed away all 
sign of the dreadful scourge that had fallen 
so heavily on the good town of Stratford. So 
out of mind was it, that the honest burgesses 
scarce ever talked of the subject, save per- 
adventure some long winter's eve, when tales 
were going round the chimney corner, some 
one or another would vary the common gos- 
siping of ghosts and witches, fairies and such 
like, with a story of the fearful plague, the 
which never failed to make the hearers, ere 
they entered their beds, down on their mar- 
row-bones, and very heartily thank God they 
had escaped such imminent, terrible danger 
Everything was going on just in the old plea- 
sant way. 

John Shakspeare had been made an alder- 
man of, and was now advanced to the dignity 
of high bailiff, being also in a fair way of bu- 
siness, and in excellent repute, for his tho- 
rough honesty, among his fellow-burgesses ; 
nor was it forgotten of them the good part 
he played with Master Combe in the time 
of the pestilence. Of these, neither had suf- 
fered by the manifold dangers in which they 
had oft ventured ; nor had Dame Shakspeare, 
or her family either, notwithstanding of the 
frights he had been put to. As for her sweet 
son William, he grew to be as handsome and 
well behaved a child as ever lived in the 
world, and the admiration of all who could 
get sight of him. Concerning of his intelli- 
gence above all other children that ever liv- 
ed, nurse Cicely gave such marvelous ac- 
counts, that he must needs have been a pro- 
digy ere he was in short coats. Be this as it 
may, there can be no manner of doubt he 
gave, at an exceeding early age, many signs 
of excellence, anil of aptitude for such learn- 
ing as the inquisitive young mind is ever 
most intent upon. 

Once when John Shakspeare, with Hum* 



38 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



phrey and others who assisted him in his bu- 
siness, were laboring hard in weighing and 
sorting and packing certain tods of wool, the 
good dame was in her chamber seated, ply- 
ing of her needle famously, and on the floor, 
just at her feet, was her young son, having 
by him certain toys such as children com- 
monly find some pretty pastime in. Some- 
times he would seem monstrous busy divert- 
ing of himself with these trifles, prattling to 
himself all the whilst ; anon he would leave 
off, and lifting up his face, would ask some 
question of his mother, the which if she an- 
swered not, be sure he would importune her 
with infinite earnestness till she did. Close at 
hand there was a spinning-wheel ; on the 
wainscot were two or three samplers, con- 
taining divers fine texts of Scripture, with 
flowers worked round the border, doubtless 
of the good dame's own working. On a 
square table of oak was a basket with threads 
and tapes and the like in it ; beside it was 
some cloth of a frolic green, of which she ap- 
peared to be making a new frock for the boy, 
with such pretty fantasy of her's in the fashi- 
oning of it, as she thought would become him 
most. The casement, which looked out into 
the garden, being unclosed, there was upon 
the ledge a large ewer filled with sprigs of 
lavender, that made the chamber smell very 
daintily. Nurse Cicely was assisting of 
Maud in a further room, the door of which 
being open, the two could be seen at their 
employment, getting up the linen of the fa- 
mily — for nurse had grown greatly in her 
mistress' confidence, because of her constant 
affectionateness and care of the child, and of 
her trustworthiness and wonderful skill in all 
household matters. 

" Mother, I pray you tell me something 
concerning of the fairies of whom Nurse 
Cicely discourseth to me so oft !" exclaimed 
the boy. 

" Prithee, wait till nurse hath leisure," re- 
plied his mother. " She knoweth more of 
them than do I." 

" An' you love me, tell me are they so 
mindful of good little children as she hath 
said ?" added he more ungently. 

" In deed, I have heard so," answered the 
dame. 

" I marvel where they shall find lodging, 
be they of such small stature ?" observed 
the child. 

"It is said they do commonly sojourn in 
the cups of the sweetest flowers," said she ; 
" hiding themselves all the day therein, in the 
deepest retreats of woods and lonely places : 
and in the night time come they out in some 
green field, or other verdant space, and dance 
merrily of a summer's eve, with such deli- 



cate, sweet enjoyment as is unknown to mor» 
tals, till the morning star appeareth in the 
skies, when away hie they to their hiding 
places, every one as swiftly as if he had winga 
to carry him." The boy listened with his 
fair eyes upturned, gazing in his mother's 
face in a famous seriousness and wonder 
then seemed he to ponder awhile on wha* 
had been told him. 

" And how many little children be possess • 
ed of such goodness as may make them bp 
well regarded of these same fairies ?" asked 
he at last. 

" They must give way to no naughty be- 
havior," answered his mother. " They musl 
not be uncivil, nor froward, nor capable of 
any kind of disobedience or obstinacy, nor say 
any thing that is not true, nor be impatient 
or greedy, or quarrelsome, nor have any un- 
cleanly or untidy ways, nor do any one thing 
they are told not." 

" I warrant you I will do none of these," 
exclaimed the boy. 

" But above all they must be sure learn 
their letters betimes," continued the other ; 
" that they may be able to know the propel 
knowledge writ in books, which if they know 
not when they grow up, neither fairy nor any 
other shall esteem them to be of any good- 
ness whatsoever." 

" I warrant you I will learn my letters as 
speedily as I can," replied the child eagerly. 
" Nay, I beseech you mother, teach them to 
me now, for I am exceeding desirous to be 
thought of some goodness." The mother 
smiled, well pleased to notice such impati- 
ence in him, and bade him leave his toys and 
fetch her a horn-book that was on a shelf with 
a few books of another kind, the which he 
did veiy readily ; and then as he stood lean- 
ing on her lap, seriously intent upon observ- 
ing of the characters there put down, she told 
him of what names they were called, and 
bade him mark them well, that he might be 
sure not to mistake one for another. This 
very willingly he promised to do, and for 
sometime, the whilst she continued her work, 
yet with a frequent and loving eye on his 
proceedings he would pore over those letters, 
saying to himself what their names were, or 
if he stood in any doubt, straightway questi- 
oning of his mother upon the matter. 

" But what good are these same letters of, 
mother ?" inquired he all at once. 

" This much, replied Dame Shakspeare — 
" knowing of them thoroughly one by one, 
you shall soon come to be able to put them 
together for the forming of words ; and when 
you are sufficiently apt at that, you snail 
thereby come to be learned enough to read 
all such words as are in any sentence— 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



39 



▼'hich you shall find to be made up of such ; 
and when the reading of these .sentences he 
familiar to you, doubt not your ability to mas- 
ter whatsoever proper book falleth into your 
hand — for all books are composed of such 
sentences." a 

" Is it so, indeed !" observed the boy in a 
pretty sort of innocent surprise. " And do 
any of these 'goodly books discourse of the 
fairies yon spoke of awhile since ?" 

" Ah, that do they, and famously I warrant 
you," answered his mother. 

" Oh ! how glad of heart shall I be when 
I can master such books f" exclaimed the 
child very earnestly ; " for I do long to learn 
more of these fairies. Dost know, mother, 
that after nurse hath sung me songs of them, 
or told me marvelous pretty tales of them, as 
is her wont till I have fallen asleep, it hath 
seemed to me as if crowds of such tiny folk 
out of all number, shining so brightly in their 
•gay apparel of the finest colors, as though I 
was with them in the fair sunshine, have 
come thronging to me, offering me this dain- 
ty nice thing and the other dainty nice thing, 
and singing to me sweeter songs than nurse 
Cicely sings, and dancing and making sport 
with such infinite joy as would make any 
glad to be of their company ; and whilst they 
continue, they show me such wonderful great 
kindness, and afford me such extreme plea- 
sure, it grieveth me when I wake to find they 
are all gone. So that I am exceeding de- 
sirous, as I have said, to make myself as 
good as I can, and to learn my letters as 
speedily as I may, that I may be admitted to 
play with them, and be loved of them as much 
as they will let me." 

The good dame marvelled somewhat to 
hear this, and to note with what pleased ex- 
citement it was said, for sooth to say, it was 
a right pleasant picture, as ever limner drew, 
to see those intelligent eyes so full of deep 
expressiveness, and the fair forehead sur- 
rounded with its clustering, shining curls, 
and the delicate, rosy cheek and smiling 
mouth, that could of themselves have dis- 
coursed most exquisite meaning, even though 
that most melodious voice had failed in its 
proper office. 

" Marry, but you have pleasant dreams, 
methinks !" exclaimed she at last. 

" Ay, that have I," replied the boy : " yet 
I like not waking, and all this sweet pleasant- 
ness go away, I know not where. But I must 
to my lesson of the letters," added he, as he 
took to his horn-book again ; " else shall the 
fairies take me to be of no manner of good- 
ness, and straightway have none of me. 

" Yes, an' it please you, mistress is within. 
T way you enter," nurse Cicely was here 

o 



heard to say in the next chamber — " I doubt 
not she will be exceedingly glad of your 
company ; so walk in, I beseech you. Here 
is Mistress Alderman Dowlas, an' it please 
you, mistress !" exclaimed she, entering the 
chamber, closely followed by the draper's 
wife, looking very cheerful, and dressed in 
a scarlet cloak and a hat, with a basket in 
her hand and her purse at her girdle, as 
though she were going to marketing. 

" Ha, gossip, how farest ?" inquired the 
visitor, making up to her host, with a merrj 
tripping pace. 

" Bravely, neighbor, I thank you heartily,' 
replied she, and then they two kissed each 
other affectionately, and nurse Cicely got a 
chair, and having wiped the seat with her 
apron, sat it down close to her mistress. 

" And how's the dear boy ? Come hither, 
you pretty rogue, I would have a kiss of 
you !" exclaimed the alderman's wife, as 
she sat herself at her ease, and gave the bas- 
ket for nurse to place on the table. 

" An' it please you, I am learning of my 
letters," said the child, shrinking closer to 
his mother's side. 

" Nay, by my troth, this is somewhat un- 
civil of you," cried the dame, though she 
laughed merrily all the time. " But I doubt 
you will use a woman so when you get to be 
a man." 

" He will have none of his father in him 
an' he do," observed nurse, " for he had the 
wit to win one of the very comeliest women 
all the country round." 

" La, nurse, how idly you talk !" exclaim- 
ed Dame Shakspeare, then bending her head 
to her young son to hide a slight blush that 
appeared on her fair cheeks, she said to him 
— " Go you to neighbor Dowlas like a good 
boy I pray you." 

" Ha, come hither straight, and mayhap I 
shall find you some keepsake ere we part," 
added her neighbor. The child moved 
slowly towards her, with his eyes steadfastly 
regarding of his horn-book, till she raised 
him on her knee and caressed him ; and yet 
he was as intent on the letters as ever. 

" And what has got here, I prithee, that 
thou art so earnest about ?" asked Mistress 
Dowlas, as she examined what he had in his 
hand. " A horn-book, as I live ! and dost 
really know thy letters at so early an age ?" 

" By'r lady, of all children ever I met, he 
exceedeth them in aptness at any sort of 
learning," cried nurse Cicely, putting of his 
frock straight because of its appearing some- 
what rumpled ; " as I live, I never heard of 
his fellow : wilt believe it, mistress ? — if by 
chance I sing him a ballad — the which he is 
ever a calling of me to do, he will have it 



40 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



again and again ; and, perchance, ere the 
day is over, he will be playing with his toys 
and singing of that very ballad all the whilst !" 

" Oh, the dear boy !" exclaimed the dra- 
per's pretty wife, as she cuddled him closer 
in her arms, the mother looking on with a 
famous satisfaction in her features ; " and 
canst tell me those pretty letters ?" inquired 
she of him. 

" Nay, I doubt I can tell you them all," 
replied the child ingeniously ; " but methinks 
I know a good many of them." Then point- 
ing with his finger on the several characters 
as he named them, he continued — " first here 
is A, that ever standeth astraddle ; — next him 
is B. who is all head and body and no legs ; 
— then cometh C, bulged out behind like a 
very hunchback ; — after him D, who doeth 
the clean contrary, for his bigness is all be- 
fore ; — next," here he hesitated for some few 
seconds, the others present regarding him 
with exceeding attentiveness and pleasure 
— " next here is — alack, I have forgotten of 
• what name this one is called : mother, I pray 
you tell me again !" It was told him pre- 
sently. Then went he on as before, with 
great seriousness naming of the letters with 
some few mistakes, in most of which he 
quickly corrected himself, and coming to a 
halt when he was in any doubt of the matter 
— which ended in his asking help of his mo- 
ther — none interrupting him till he came to 
the last of them. 

" There is a scholar for you !" cried nurse 
Cicely in an ecstacy of admiration ; " saw 
any such wonderful cleverness ? O, my 
Christian conscience, I am amazed at be- 
holding of such a marvel ! Well, an' he 
come not to be some famous learned clerk I 
shall be hugely disappointed." 

" Dear heart, how I love thee !" exclaimed 
Mistress Dowlas, kissing him with an earn- 
est show of affection ; " nurse, prithee give 
me the basket ; I have got him there a deli- 
cate piece of march-pane, which I doubt not 
will give him infinite content ; and here in 
my purse I have got a bran new silver groat 
fresh from the mint, which he shall have of 
Bie as a keepsake." 

" Marry, what a prodigal goodness !" 
cried nurse, as she did what was required of 
her without loss of time ; but he meriteth it 
well, he doth, I will be bound for him, and 
every good thing in this world that might 
grace his having." 

"What say you to neighbor Dowlas for 
her great kindness ?" inquired the much de- 
lighted mother, as her young son took in his 
lands her visitor's gifts. 

"I thank you right heartily, neighbor 
Dowlas," reolied he, lifting up his fair eyes 



with such modesty and gratefulness express- 
ed in them, as charmed her heart to see. 

" I'faith, should I be inclined to become 
covetous, methinks here I should find ample 
excuse for it," observed the draper's wife, 
patting of the child's rosy cheeks as she put 
him down from her lap ; then rising, added, 
" But now I must hie me home as speedilj 
as I may for the getting of dinner ready, foi 
I have tarried so long a space since my com- 
ing out, that perchance my good master shall 
give me up altogether." 

The draper's wife having gossiped all 
she had to say concerning of her neighbors 
and their doings, kissed the boy and his 
mother very lovingly, and took her leave. 

Now the reader hath already had some 
acquaintance with those worthies, Master 
Alderman Dowlas and Master Alderman 
Malmsey, but methinks 'tis high time he 
should know more df them for the better 
understanding of this story. Both had been 
married some time to two as proper women 
as ever were seen. The former of the two 
was a rigid, serious, methodical fellow T to all 
outward appearance ; somewhat tall and 
slender, with hard solemn features, as hath 
been described ; and the other was one of a 
right jolly face and portly person, with a 
merry dark eye, ever a winking at some 
pretty woman or another, and a short black 
beard, with hair of a like color. Each was 
turned of forty, and therefore ought to have 
been of discreet behavior ; and as for their 
wives, if ever men had inducement to honest 
conduct, they had in possessing of such 
women ; for they were ever of an admirable 
pleasant humor, of notable excellence in 
what women ought to be, and in all res- 
pects such good wives, that it was,not pos- 
sible to say ought to their discredit. Each 
was a little short of thirty, and having had 
no children, had not yet parted with their 
youthfulness, and the innocent happy care- 
lessness which is so oft its companion. They 
were friends from girls, and loved each other 
as though they were sisters. 

" Neighbor Dowlas !" cried a well-known 
voice, as the draper's wife was crossing to 
her house ; and looking up, she saw her 
gossip Mistress Alderman Mamlsey leaning 
out of her casement. " I pray you come in a 
while, I have a matter of some moment for 
your private ear." 

" I'll come to you this very instant," an- 
swered the other, and straightway passed 
into the vintner's dwelling. Scarce had she 
got within the threshhold, when the jolly 
vintner bustled up to her with a marvelous 
obsequious courtesy welcoming her to the 
house, pressing her to taste of his bestv* ♦• 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



41 



Una leering in her face the whilst, whisper- 
ing all sorts of sugared compliments in her 
ear. 

" Nay, prithee let me go !" exclaimed she, 
striving to free her hand, which he held in 
his as they stood at the bottom of the stair. 
"• You h urt my fingers, you vile wretch, with 
your intolerable squeezing." 

" Oh, delectable Mistress Dowlas !" cried 
he, kissing of her hand in seeming rapture ; 
" the stars are but pitiful rushlights to those 
exquisite bright eyes, and that delicate fair 
cheek out-rivaleth the peach's richest 
bloom." 

" Away with you, and your poor flatter- 
ing stuff" !" said the draper's pretty wife, still 
striving to break away from him ; " I'm 
not to be cozened so easily, I promise you." 

" I beseech you, dearest life, allow me one 
sweet salute !" whispered he, in most en- 
treating tones, as he brought his face as 
close as he could to her's." 

" There's one prithee, make the most 
on't !" exclaimed she, as she took him a box 
on the ear that made the place ring ; and 
then ran laughing up stairs. 

Neighbor Malmsey wore a more serious 
face than was her wont. At least so thought 
neighbor Dowlas, as she entered her cham- 
ber ; and after the customary courtesies 
were over, and the two were seated close 
together, neighbor Malmsey looked more 
serious still. 

" I have a matter to speak of, that mak- 
eth me exceedingly dull at heart," com- 
menced Mistress Malmsey. - 

" Doubtless, 'tis concerning the improper 
behavior of her wretch of a husband," 
thought Mistress Dowlas ; then added aloud. 
"Believe me, I am infinitely concerned also." 

" I hope you will not think the worse of 
me for telling you," continued the vintner's 
wife ; " but 1 assure you, rather than allow 
of your being unhappy by knowing it, I have 
for many years past endured much of un- 
pleasantness at his hands, and said nought 
but rebuke him for his wantoness. 

" Alack, we cannot all have good hus- 
bands !" exclaimed her gossip, in a conso- 
lotary sort of manner. 

" Now, my Jonathan " 

" But he only groweth the bolder for my 
forbearance," continued neighbor Malmsey, 
interrupting the other. Indeed, he getteth 
to be quite abominal, and mast have a 
speedy check put to his misdeeds, or his 
wickedness will soon make such a head, 
there will no putting of him down." 

" O' my life, I cannot count him so bad 
an that," observed neighbor Dowlas, as if, 
Vith a view of affording the ill-used wife 



some comfort. " Perchance, it is only a 
little wildness that good counsel will make 
him ashamed of speedily. Now, my Jona- 
than " 

" I am glad you think no worse of him," 
quickly answered the vintner's wife ; " but 
methinks, it looketh to be a very shameful 
impudency in him to go on so, and have so 
good a wife." 

" Ay, 'tis monstrous that, of a surety !" 
cried her gossip. 

" But I have done with him," added 
neigbor Malmsey, with some earnestness : 
" he hath lost my good opinion long since. 
I will foreswear his company, an' he mend 
not soon." 

" Prithee, take not to such extreme mea- 
sures !" said the other, concernedly. " Find- 
ing no profit in it, I doubt not he will alter 
his way, and I will take good heed he shall 
do you no matter of dishonesty." 

" Marry, I can answer for that," observ- 
ed her companion ; " but I do assure you I 
have talked to him many times of the 
heinousness of the offence, and never at 
any time have given him the slightest pro- 
vocation for such notorious misbehaving to 
you." 

" Of that I feel well assured," answered 
neighbor Dowlas ; and if at last he do not 
love you as fondly as ever man loved his 
wife, I shall be hugely mistaken." 

'•Eh? What? Love me?" exclaimed her 
companion, looking in a famous wonder. 
" But I marvel you should make jest of it. 
I would not in such a case I promise you ; 
but it glads me infinitely to say there is no 
fear of such a thing. My Timothy giveth 
me no sort of uneasiness." 

" Indeed !" cried her neighbor, seeming 
in a greater amazement than the other had 
been. 

" I would your husband would take a pat- 
tern of him." 

" I would nought of the kind, neighbor 
Malmsey," quickly ejaculated the draper's 
wife, with a very absolute earnestness. " 1 
like not my husband to be ever a running af- 
ter another man's wife, seeking of unlawful 
favors of her, as for years past Master 
Malmsey hath done to me, I promise you." 

" My Timothy run after you, neighbor 
Dowlas !" screamed out the vintner's wife, 
bounding from her seat in as absolute as- 
tonishment as ever was seen. 

" By my troth, yes," answered her com- 
panion. 

" Oh the horrid villa\n !" exclaimed the 
other. 

" He is ever pestering of me with hi* 
foolish flatteries and protestations of kvOt 



42 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



and the like poor stuff," added the draper's 
wife, "I have no rest from him when I 
have such ill-hap as to he in his company. 
Nay, as I came in here he would needs 
have a kiss of me at the stair-foot, but I up 
with my hand and gave him so rude a sa- 
lute on the ear, I doubt not I have taken all 
conceit of such favors out of his head." 

" Oh, the abominable caitiff!" cried 
neighbor Malmsey. 

" I liked not telling you of it, thinking it 
might vex you," continued the other, " so 
I bore it as good humoredly as I could, and 
should not have spoke of it now had you 
not begun the subject upon my entering of 
the room." 

" 'Twas of Master Dowlas's shameful 
behavior to me I was speaking," said the 
vintner's wife. " He hath followed me up 
and down for years in this way, spite of all 
I could say or do." 

" What, my Jonathan !" now cried the 
other, starting from her chair in a greater to 
do than her companion had been. " The 
absolute wretch ! But I will be even with 
him, I warrant you. Please you, neighbor 
Malmsey, to leave the revenging of the 
wrong done us by these pitiful hypocrites ; 
if. shall be done after such a sort as shall 
punish them handsomely for their intended 
v.; ilainy, and in remembrance of it, keep them 
from all such baseness for the future." 

" That will I, and willingly, gossip," an- 
swered her companion with the tears in her 
eyes. " But he hath oft pressed me to give 
him a private meeting, prithee, say what I 
had best do." 

" I have a merry cousin of mine, who 
will help us in this purpose of ours," replied 
neighbor Dowlas. " So you must e'en in- 
vite him to sup with you alone at Widow 
Pippins.' I will do the same with my wor- 
shipful gallant, and if you learn your part of 
me, we will have as exquisite sport as ever 
misused woman had of a vile husband." 

" Rely on me," said neighbor Malmsey. 
" But, as I live, I hear the voice of your 
precious partner talking to mine on the 
stair-fqot !" exclaimed she. 

" Doubtless they will both make for here, 
so do you as I have said, and leave the rest 
to my managing," added the other. She 
had scarce said the words, and they had re- 
seated themselves, when, as they appeared 
intent upon some deep discourse, there 
entered Master Alderman Dowlas, with his 
usual great soberness of manner, having his 
brother alderman behind him in a jesting 
humor, as he seemed, as if quite forgetful of 
the oox of the ear he had just had.. 

" Perdie ! here is one about to, send' the 



town crier after you, fair Mistress Dowlas !" 
exclaimed he, making up to her as gallantly 
as ever. 

" Indeed, I have marveled hugely on ac- 
count of your long stay abroad, knowing 
not how you had disposed of yourself," said 
the draper. " But I am wonderfully con- 
tent to find you in such admirable company. 
And how doth my fair life ?" whispered he, 
glancing at his friend's wife most enamor- 
edly, as he followed her to a distant part of 
the chamber, and vowing and entreating and 
flattering of her, as though it were done for 
a very wager. Nor was Master Malmsey 
in any way behind him in such ill-doing, as 
may be supposed, for he sat down with his 
back to the other, before Mistress Dowlas, 
exercising of his tongue with the movingest 
expression he could think of, and gazing at 
her comeliness as though it were' the rarest 
feast for the eye that the wnole world con- 
tained; Neither thought of glancing to- 
wards where was his wife. Indeed, each 
was too intent on what he was about to heed 
what the other was a doing, not imagining 
such a thing as his friend attempting of the 
same thing as be was himself straining 
might and main to accomplish. Howsoever, 
in the space of a few moments this private 
talk was broke up, manifestly to the excee- 
ding contentation of these worthless hus- 
bands. 

" What an absolute fool is neighbor Malm- 
sey, that he looketh not closer after his 
wife !" thought Master Alderman Dowlas, 
as he descended the stair looking solemn as 
an owl. 

" What a very ass is neighbor Dowlas, 
that he cannot see that I am making love to 
his wife before his face ?" thought the vint- 
ner, with an inward chuckle of satisfaction 
at his own cleverness and better fortune. - 

All that day the draper appeared in a 
most exquisite satisfaction with himself. 
The seriousnesss of his aspect was oft dis- 
turbed with a happy smile, and as the noon 
wore out, he kept ever asking of the hour. 

" Dame," said he at last, after he had 
spent a wonderful time in washing and 
decking himself out in his best apparel, till 
he looked as spruce and stiff as a roll of 
buckram; "there is a certain godly man 
over at Hillsborough, that I have promised 
neighbor Hurdle to go and hear preach this 
night ; if, peradventure, I should tarry lon& 
prithee, get thee to bed betimes. I am kwth 
thy rest should be shortened by waiting up 
for me." 

" Marry ! I should like to go myself to 
hear, the good man,!' observed his wi '«, 
somewhat mischievously by the way, u 1 ■* 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



43 



•wethinks his preaching cannot help being 
as good for me as for you." 

" But the distance is far too great for thy 
walking, dame, else shouldst thou without 
fail," replied he very readily. 

" Nay, but I walked to Barston last 
Shrovetide, which is a good mile longer," 
said she. " I doubt not such a jour- 
ney will do me aji especial good service, 
to say nought of the godliness of it." 

" Indeed, I would take thee with all my 
heart," added her husband, " but since the 
last rains some parts of the road are utterly 
impassible for huge deep ponds that go right 
across." 

" Then will we borrow John a Combe's 
grey horse, and I will ride behind you on a pil- 
lion," answered his wife, as if desirous to 
bring him to a nonplus. 

" O' my life ! I cannot wait to go a bor- 
rowing now, so I must e'en wish thee good 
bye, and take thee another time," replied 
Master Dowlas ; and then, as if fearful she 
would more strongly desire to go, as quick 
as he might he took himself straight out of 
the house. Scarce had he entered the 
street when he was hailed by his jolly 
neighbor opposite, standing at his door in 
nis Sunday jerkin and new gallygaskins, 
as finely trussed as ever he was when a 
good score years younger. To his question 
where was he going so fine, the draper an- 
swered as he had told his wife, then Master 
Malmsey declared to the other that as his 
good dame had gone a visiting to her aunt's, 
he intended making a night on't with a few 
choice spirits at his cousin Birch's. Thus 
each were deceived, and each laughed in his 
sleeve at the other's credulity. 

Jonathan Dowlas proceeded on his way, 
hugging himself Tn his own conceit at the 
pass he had brought matters to with the 
buxom Mistress Malmsey, till he came to 
the outskirts of the town, where was a small 
inn known as " The Rose," kept by the 
widow Pippins, in famous repute for her 
careless free humor, and fondness for jests 
of all sorts. The building, or buildings, for 
there seemed more than one, were comiected 
by a wooden gallery that run across right 
in front of the yard, on one side of which lay 
the more respectable portion of the tenement, 
with its boarded front covered with grapes, 
that hung in famous clusters even up to the 
thatch. The other part looked to be the sta- 
bles, pigsties, and the like sort of places. 
Jonathan made for the entrance holding up 
his head as high as he might. 

" Ha, ha ! Master Alderman, ar't there !" 
exclaimed a voice from the gallery, and 
looking up, the draper's eye caught sight of 



the widow Pippins. There was she leaning 
on her elbows over the railing, as if watch 
ing for him, her brown face crinkling upon 
her red arms, like a rasher of bacon on the 
burning coals. Perchance she might be 
laughing, but Jonathan Dowlas was not 
nigh enough to see very distinctly. Get 
thee in quick, I prithee, and I will be witl 
thee straight." 

The alderman obeyed her bidding with a 
stately alacrity, and he had scarcely got 
fairly housed when he was met by mine 
hostess, whose still bright eyes, albeit though 
she was a woman, somewhat advanced in 
years, twinkled with a most merry mali- 
ciousness. 

" Follow me," whispered she, evidently 
striving to suppress a laugh, and then giving 
him a sly nudge and a wink, added, " Oh, 
thou villain !" led the way to a chamber, 
of the which she had scarce closed the door, 
when she burst out into a long loud laugh, 
the draper looking on as though he knew 
not what to make of it. " By my fay, now 
who would have thought of this !" exclaim- 
ed she, holding of her sides, and looking 
at him with exceeding, yet with a mon- 
strous ludicrous intentness. " Where didst 
get the powder to make so exquisite fair a 
woman so infinitely in love with thee as is 
Mistress Malmsey?" The alderman re- 
laxed somewhat in the seriousness of his 
aspect at hearing this intelligence. " She 
dotes on the very ground thou dost walk 
on !" continued she, and the alderman smiled 
outright. " But who would have suspect- 
ed this of one so serious as thou art ? O 
my womanhood ! what a very rogue thou 
art !" saying which she fetched Master 
Dowlas so sore a thump on the back, that it 
went some way towards the knocking of 
him off his legs. 

" Poor Master Malmsey !" cried she, as 
plainly as she could in the midst of her 
laughing, " Alack ! he hath no suspicion of 
his wife's huge fondness for thee, I'll be 
bound for't. Knowing of thy notable grav- 
ity, he cannot have the slightest color of 
jealousy. But, I charge thee, use hef with 
a proper handsomeness. She is none of 
your light madams — she hath a most gentle 
spirit, and is the very delicatest, sweetest 
creature I ever came nigh." Then fixing 
on him a look in which seriousness and 
mirth seemed striving for the mastery, she 
cried, " Go to, for a sly fox !" and hitting 
of him just such another thump as she gave 
him a moment since, — with a fresh burst 
of laughter — she left him to himself. 

Jonathan found that he was in a long 
narrow chamber, strewed with rushes, wilS 



44 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



a door at each end, and one at the side, at 
which he had entered — having in the mid- 
dle a small table set out for supper, with a 
larger one at the further end of the chamber, 
completely covered with a cloth that fell 
down to the ground on all sides of it, and it 
was fairly hung round with arras, some- 
what the worse for its antiquity, for it 
gaped in some places sadly. He had hard- 
ly noticed these things when the door at 
the bottom of the room opened, and there 
entered Mistress Malmsey, clad in her very 
gayest attire, and looking, as the alderman 
thought, more blooming than ever he had 
seen her. He with an exceeding forma] 
sort of gallantry, hastened to get a chair 
for her, expressing of his extreme rapture 
at her goodness in giving him this appoint- 
ment, and then sat himself down as close 
to her as be could, taking her hand very 
lovingly in his, and commencing his fa- 
mous hne compliments, protestations, and 
entreaties, with an earnestness that he im- 
agined was sure of prevailing with any 
woman. The vintner's wife answered with 
some coyness, that convinced him what the 
widow Pippins had said was true enough, 
and he straightway redoubled his exertions, 
fully assured that his suecess with her was 
beyond all doubting. 

" Divinest creature !" exclaimed the 
enamored draper, looking at his companion 
as lack-a-daisical as a hooked gudgeon, 
" fairest, sweetest, super-finest she alive ! 
I do assure thee my affections be of the best 
nap, and will wear in all weathers, and I 
will give thee such liberal measure of my 
love as shall make thee infinitely loath to 
have dealings elsewhere."' 

" Alack, men are such deceivers !" cried 
Mistress Malmsey. " They soon depart 
from what they promise." 

" Count me not as such, I pr'ythee," re- 
plied the alderman, " I am warranted fast. 
I do assure thee, I am none of such poor 
fabrics — I am of the finest quality, even to 
the fag end. Oh, exquisitest Mistress 
Malmsey, an' you do not take pity on me 
straight, I must needs lie on the shelf like 
a considerable remnant, of which the fash- 
ion hath gone out of date." 

" Hush ! as I live, there is my husband's 
voice !" here exclaimed the vintner's wife, 
to the great alarm of her lover, and both 
started up together, seeming in a wonderful 
surprise and affright. 

" What ho ! house here !" shouted Mas- 
ter Alderman Malmsey, from the stair 
foot. 

" Hide thee, good master Dowlas, or I 
am lost," exclaimed the vintnei' wife, and 



before Jonathan could look about him, ah* 
had vanished out of the bottom door ; but 
he was not allowed time to think what he 
should do in such a dilemma, for he heard 
the footsteps of his neighbor close upon the 
door, so, as speedily as he could, he crept 
under the table at the further end of the 
room, imagining that the other was merely 
paying of a passing visit, as he was pro- 
ceeding to his cousin Kirch's, and would 
tarry but a short time. Here he lay snug- 
ly ensconced, not daring to peep out for 
fear he should be seen. Presently, in 
came the jolly vintner, humming of a tune, 
and bandying jests with the widow Pippins, 
who led the way with a light — it getting to 
be nigh upon dark — and, by her loud laugh- 
ing, was in as fine a humor at beholding 
him in her house, as she had before been at 
seeing his neighbor. 

" Odds pittkins, what a jest !" cried the 
merry widow, putting the light upon the 
supper table. "Happy man!" added she* 
looking on him as seriously as she could, 
and then giving him a sly poke on the ribs, 
exclaimed, as plain as her loud laughing 
would allow, " but what a monstrous poor 
fool is her husband !" At which saying of 
hers, Master Malmsey joined in the laugh 
right earnestly. 

" There is never such an ass in Strat- 
ford," said he, when his mirth would allow 
him words. He is so weak of conceit in 
the matter that he will allow of my making 
love to his wife before his eyes. But mum, 
widow — mum's the word," said he, myste- 
riously, " I should not like of his knowing 
what kindness I am doing him. Mayhap 
he would take it somewhat uncivil of me. 
So be close, widow, I prithee. 

" As a fox," replied the other knowingly. 

" Dost not think, a man who taketh no 
better heed of his wife, ought to be so serv- 
ed ?" inquired the vintner. 

" O' my troth, yes !" answered the widow, 
breaking out into a fresh peal of laughter ; 
" And trust me, I would think it good sport 
to help make a fool of him." 

" I thank thee exceedingly," said Mastef. 
Malmsey. 

" Nay, thou hast small cause of thanks, 
believe me, Master Alderman," replied his 
merry companion, with the tears running 
down her cheeks from sheer mirth ; " I do 
it out of good will — out of good will, 1 do 
assure thee." Then nudging him o' the 
elbow, having an exceeding sly look with 
her, she added — " Art thou not a rogue, 
now, — an especial rogue — a very cozening 
rogue, to make the flower of all Stratford 
to be so taken with ihee 1" 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



45 



* It cometh entirely of her fool of a hus- 
band," answered the vintner, chuckling 
mightily. " He would allow of our being 
together at all times, and was ever thrust- 
ing of her, as it were, into my arms. How 
could 1 help myself. I am but a man, and 
she so exquisite sweet a creature ! So, 
whilst he was humming and hawing to my 
good dame, I had her up in a corner, ma- 
ting of love to her by the hour together." 

"Fie on thee, Master Alderman!" said 
she, shaking her head as if with a famous 
seriousness. " Thou art a dangerous man 
for any poor woman to be with, so I will 
e'en be quit of thy company. I'faith thou 
art a sad rogue." Then fetching him a 
poke i' the ribs that made him gasp for 
breath, she hurried out of the room laugh- 
ing more heartily than ever. 

All this made Jonathan Dowlas prick up 
his ears, and he marvelled hugely who could 
be the frail wife his neighbor was enamored 
of as he had had no suspicion of such athing; 
whereof the knowledge of it he had now 
gained, made him think of his designs on 
Mistress Malmsey a proper punishment for 
bis brother alderman's unpardonable con- 
duct towards his friend, whoever he might 
be. Full of all sorts of speculations on the 
matter, he remained in his hiding place 
without moving, for he could hear the vint- 
ner humming of a tune, and walking to and 
fro, and was cautious his hiding place might 
not be discovered. Presently the door 
opened and some one entered, whom Master 
Malmsey addressed in such a manner as 
made Jonathan feel assured it was the very 
woman the other declared he so loved. She 
answered in so small a voice she could not 
be well heard in the draper's hiding place ; 
and, in a minute after, the two seated them- 
selves at the farther end of the room, where, 
although he had heard each word his neigh- 
bor spoke, because of the greater loudness of 
his speech, of his companion distinguished 
he never a word, it seemed to be uttered in 
such a whisper. The extreme movingness 
of the vintner's speech at last filled his 
neighbor with so absolute a curiousness to 
know who it was the other was so intent 
upon loving, that he began with wonderful 
cautiousness, to lift up a part of the table 
' cover, so that he might take a peep without 
betng seen. 

The first thing he got sight of was neigh- 
bor Malmsey, kneeling on one knee with his 
hand to his heart, with nothing but the most 
desperate and uncontrollable affection in his 
looks, and such an absolute irresistibleness 
in his speech, that it was as if no woman 
must stand against it. Before him was 



seated a female very prettily attired, wb 
face being somewhat in the shade, and « 
little turned from him, Master Dowlas could 
not at all make out. The candle wanted 
snuffing abominably, or perchance he would 
have seen better. 

" Prithee turn not away those lustrous 
eyes," exclaimed the vintner in a rare im- 
passioned manner ; " the poor knave thy 
husband heedeth not their brightness ; and 
that most delicious lip, that rivaleth my 
choicest wines in the tempting richness of 
its hue, — why should such a sorry fellow as 
he is have its flavor to himself, who mani- 
festly careth not for it. All my heart 
longeth but for a taste. My dear sweet, 
prithee allow it but this once. I will be 
bound to thee ever after. I will hold thee 
in more regard than my chiefest customer. 
Come, we dally with opportunity. I will 
be bold and steal it an' thou wilt not give 
after so much asking." Just at this mo- 
ment the speaker made an effort as if to 
salute his companion, and she moving at 
the same time brought her full face to the 
light, and Jonathan Dowlas beheld his own 
wi'fe. A clap of thunder would not have 
startled him more than, such a discovery; 
indeed so monstrous was he moved, at it 
that he clean forgot where he was, and 
rising quickly hit himself so sore a crack o' 
the crown against the table, that he could 
do nought for some minutes after but rub 
his pate and vow vengeance against his 
false wife and wicked treacherous neigh- 
bor. 

" By'r lady now, I must go up," cried Mis- 
tress Malmsey from below, so loud that all 
heard her. 

" O' my troth, here is your wife coming, 
and if she catch us I shall be undone !" ex- 
claimed Mistress Dowlas, immediately after 
which the unhappy draper heard the shuffling 
of feet, and he was left in darkness. 

" Now if his wife come here, I will have 
excellent revenge," thought he. Presently 
he heard a door open, and some one cry out 
in a whisper — " Master Alderman," where- 
upon he stealthily left his hiding place. 

" Hist !" cried he, fumbling his way on tip- 
toe across the room. 

" Hist !" replied some one else, evidently 
making towards him with as little noise as 
possible. 

" Prithee where art, my honey sweet ?" 
inquired the former ; " since thy departure 
here hath been that most wretched villain, thy 
husband, seeking to do me the most mon- 
strous wickedness with my wife ; but if I pay 
him not handsomely there is no smoothness 
in velvet. Come hither quick, nay dear life, 



THE YOUTli OF SHAKSPBaKA 



Pot I am impatient to have thee in my most 
fond embrace !" 

" Ha, indeed !" cried Master Ma'nnsey, 
who had hid himself behind the arras when 
his fair companion had ran off with the light, 
and hearing a voice cry " Master Alderman," 
crept out, thinking she had returned to him. 
" Take that and be hanged to thee !" where- 
upon he made a blow ; but, being in tne dark, 
ho hit nothing. 

" Villain, art there !" exclaimed Master 
Dowlas in as towering a rage as his neighbor; 
" let me but get at thee, I'll maul thee 1 war- 
rant ;" and both proceeded to strike the empty 
air in a most terrible passion ever seen — ever 
and anon giving the panels such famous 
thumps, that it made their knuckles smart 
again. 

" Dost call this going to hear a godly man 
at Hillsborough, thou traitorous caitiff?" sar- 
castically asked the vintner, hitting on all 
sides of him, and jumping here and now 
there, in his desire to punish his false neigh- 
bor. 

" Ay, marry, as much as it be going to 
Cousin Birch's,'" retorted the other, coming 
on more cautiously and with less noise, yet 
no less intent on vengeance. In consequence 
of the one being so wonderful quick in his 
movements, and the other so quiet he could 
not be heard moving, there was no harm done 
for a good space, save by hurting themselves 
stumbling over chairs and the like, which was 
sure to make he who was hurt in a greater 
rage than ever, and to be more intent upon 
having his vengeance of the other. It wo uld 
have been a goodly sight to have seen this 
precious pair of husbands, if they could have 
been seen in the darkness, each so earnest 
upon punishing of the other for the same 
thing he was himself guilty of, and giving 
vent to no lack of ill names and execrations, 
which he who uttered quite as richly merited 
as he to whom they were addressed. At last 
the vintner got within an open door s,t the 
top of the room, where the draper pounced 
upon him like a cat, and as they were tuss- 
ling away with all their might it was closed 
behind them and fastened without their know- 
ledge. Neither had the slightest idea he was 
now in a different chamber, for in truth nei- 
ther had time to give the matter a thought, 
each having enough to do to defend himself 
from the other's hearty cuffs, sometimes roll- 
ing together on the floor, and anon hustling 
each other on their legs, yet with no great 
damage to either. After some minutes spent 
tois way both left off, being completely out 
of breath with their great exertions. Some- 
what to their astonishment they heard loud 
toureteof laughter from the adjoining cham- 



ber, and noticing the ±ignt streaming from 
under the door, both impelled by the samifr 
curiousness, crept softly towards it. Jona- 
than Dowlas stooped to take a peep at the 
keyhole ; Timothy Malmsey put his eye to a 
crack in the panel, — each was aware of the 
other's vicinity, but not a word was said by 
either. They looked and beheld a supper- 
table well laid, at which two handsome gal- 
lants, clad in delicate suits, with rapier and 
dagger, were regaling themselves and mak- 
ing merry, evidently to their heart's content- 
ment ; whilst the Widow Pippins stood by as 
if waiting upon them, and giving them a nar- 
ration, which she seemed as though she could 
scarce tell for laughing. 

" Indeed, an' it please your worships, it 
be the very excellentest trick ever I heard 
of," said she, holding of her sides. " Here 
came these poor fools of husbands, each des- 
perately enamoured of his friend's wife T 
which these merry women allowed of only 
that they might the better punish them as 
they deserved. I' faith, what wittols must 
they have been to have fancied themselves 
likely to prevail with such. They ought to 
have known that when a pretty woman is so 
inclined she looketh to something above her. 
There is no temptation in it else. Little 
guess Master Dowlas and Master Malmsey, 
that 'tis to your worships they care for, and 
none other." 

" Here's a horrid villainy come to light !' 
muttered the draper. 

" Oh, what a vile quean have I for a 
w'fe !" exclaimed the enraged vintner in the 
same low voice. 

"Little guess they how often yon two 
have had secret meetings here with their 
buxom wives," added the widow ; " or what 
exquisite, sweet pleasure you have found in 
their delectable company." 

" O' my word, neighbor, methinks we have 
been foully wronged !" cried Jonathan in a 
monstrous dismal tone. 

" 'Slight, there be no doubt on't !" an- 
swered Timothy, manifestly in a still worse 
to do. " Alack ! my head aches horribly." 

" By my troth, I do feel a sort of shootdng 
pain there myself," added the other, rubbing 
his forehead with his palm very dolefully. 

" I pray your worships, make haste," 
continued the laughing widow. " There 
is Mistress Malmsey below stairs, and 
Mistress Dowlas in the next chamber, 
wonderfully impatient to have with them 
their several lovers. Never saw I women 
so dote on men ; they dote on your wor- 
ships, alack for their simple husbands !" 

"We've been infamously abused, neigh- 
bor !" said the draper, whilst the others 



Tlli'i lUulH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



49 



." the next chamber were uutfuing very 
nifc/rily. " As I live, we are two miserably 
wwtclied husbands." And thereupon, niay- 
hav out of sympathy for his brother in mis- 
tortune, ne tnrew nis arms around his necK, 
and moaned very pitifully. 

" God's precious ! I shall go mad !" cried 
the vintner, lifting up one leg and then Ihe 
other, like a goose treading on hot bricKS. 
" But shall wo not burst in on these dainty 
gallants, neighbor, and spoil their sport ?" 

" Nay, nay, see you not they have weap- 
ons," whispered his more cautious compa- 
nion. " Peradventure they would give us 
our deaths were we to venture upon them 
unarmed. Let us seek to get out of this 
place as speedily as we nitty, and find assist- 
ance • doubtless we shah ie in time to dis- 
turb them at their villanies, and so rid our- 
selves of our cozening false wives, and be re- 
venged on tiieir paramours." 

" Ha ! prithee set about it on the instant," 
said the other ; " then Master Dowlas began 
feeling of his way along the wainscot with 
his brother alderman close at his heels do- 
ing the like thing, till they came to a door, 
which was soon opened by the former, and 
to the great joy of both, proved to lead out 
into the gallery. From here they were not 
long before they found themselves in the 
parlor of the house, where was a famous 
company assembled of their friends and 
neighbors, among whom were John Shak- 
speare, the high bailiff, and Oliver Dumps, 
the constable. These were quickly informed 
of the grievous wrong doing, in such moving 
terms, that the whole party, arming them- 
selves with what weapons they could conve- 
niently lay a hold on, proceeded under the 
command of their chief magistrate to seize 
upon the offenders. 

"What a villainous world is this !" ex- 
claimed Oliver, putting on his most melan- 
choly visage. " Marry, an' aldermen's wives 
must needs take to such evil courses, how 
shall a constable's wife escape ?" 

They soon burst into the chamber, where 
they found the two gallants up in a corner 
with their backs towards them, with the Wi- 
dow Pippins standing in a manner as though 
she would not have her guests rudely med- 
dled with. 

" Hollo, my masters !" exclaimed she. — 
w Are j^e mad — that ye enter thus unman- 
nerly before two gentlemen of worship ?" 

" Mind her not, neighbors — she is nothing 
jetter than a very villainous go-between !" 
exclaimed Master Alderman Malmsey in his 
deadly rage flourishing of a spit he had got 
in his hand, as if he would do one or other 
s^them some dreadful iniurv. 



I " These be the same two fine fellows that 
must needs be meddling with our wives :— 
1 will take my oath on't !" cried Master Al- 
derman Dowlas, in a horrible bad passion, 
po> nting towards them with the kitchen po- 
ker. 

"Down with them !" shouted one 

" Let us dispatch them straight !" bawled 
a second. 

" By goles, we will be their deaths — the 
monstrous villains that cannot let honest 
men's wives alone," cried a third ; and all 
seemed moving forward with mischief in their 
looks. 

" Respect the law, neighbors, respect the 
law !" exclaimed the constable, striving all 
he could to repress the desire for instant 
vengeance so manifest in his companions. 

" Ay, we must have no violence, my mas- 
ters," added John Shakspeare. " If these 
persons have done aught amiss, I will take 
care they shall answer for it, but I cannot al- 
low of their being hurt." 

" Oh, what monstrous behavior is this in 
an honest woman's house !" cried the Wi- 
dow Pippins. 

" Stand aside, mistress, I prithee," ex- 
claimed Oliver Dumps, pushing by the wi- 
dow, and seizing hold of one of the gallants 
by the shoulder, added, in a louder voice, 
" surrender you in the Queen's name." 

" Now, neighbor Dowlas," said John 
Shakspeare, " look you in the face of this 
one, and say if you can swear him to be the 
villain that playeth the wanton with your 
wife ; and you, neighbor Malmsey, do the 
same with the other." 

" I warrant you," replied both, moving 
with alacrity, and with the terriblest re- 
vengeful aspects ever seen, to do what their 
high bailiff had required. Each caught hold 
of one of the dainty young gentlemen with 
great rudeness, and poked his beard close in 
his face, and each at the same moment 
started back as though he had been shot, 
amid the loud laughter of every one in the 
room. These gallants proved to be no 
other than their own wives ; and all been 
let into the secret by them for the more 
more complete punishing of their faithless 
husbands . 

" Go to, for a sly fox !" cried the Widow 
Pippins, giving Master Dowlas just such 
another famous slap of the back as she had 
saluted him with on his first entrance to the 
chamber. " I'faith, thou art a sad rogue," 
added she, fetching Master Malmsey so ab- 
solute a poke i' the ribs that it put the othej 
poke, bad as he had thought it, clean out of 
his remembrance. The jests that were 
broke upon these poor aldermen by theil 



48 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEAkL. 



neighbors were out of all calculation, and 
tney were so ashamed they could say never 
a word for themselves. And indeed they 
made a famous pretty figure — their best ap- 
parel be ing aH covered with dust and broken 
rushes from rolling on the floor, and their 
•iands and faces, hair and beards, instead of 
being in such delicate trim as when they 
first entered " The Rose," were in as dirty a 
pickle as was any chimney-sweep's. How- 
ever, they ever after turned out to be the best 
of husbands, and would as lief have taken a 
mad bull by the horns as sought to make love 
to another man's wife. 



CHAPTER V. 

Ana, then the whining school-boy 
With satchel and shining morning face, 
Creeping, like snail, unwillingly to school. 
Shakspeare. 
Some there are, 
Which by sophistic tricks, aspire that name 
Which I would gladly lose, of necromancer ; 
As some that used to juggle upon cards, 
Seeming to conjure, when indeed they cheat; 
Others that raise up their confederate spirits 
Bout windmills, and endanger their own necks 
For making of a squib ; and some there are 
Will keep a curtal to show juggling tricks, 
And give out 'tis a spirit ; besides these, 
Such a whole ream of almanack-makers, figure- 

flingers, 
Fellows, indeed, that only live by stealth, 
Since they do merely lie about stolen goods, 
They'd make men think the devil were fast and 

loose, 
With speaking fustian Latin. 

Webster. 

" Bring hither thy hat, William, I prithee, 
'tis nigh upon school time," said Dame 
Shakspeare to her young son, as they were 
together in her chamber. 

" Ay, that is it," replied he, doing what he 
was desired with a very cheerful spirit. 
" 'Sooth, though I lack knowing what man- 
ner of pleasure is found in school, methinks 
it must needs be none so little, nurse Cicely 
speaketh of it so bravely." The mother 
carefully smoothed the hat, and placed it on 
her child's head, smiling the whilst either at 
what had just fallen from him, or mayhap at 
his exceeding comeliness, now she had, after 
intinite painstaking, attired him with such a 
ahow of neatness and cleanliness as made 
him appear worthy of any mother's love, 
Were she the proudest in the land. 

" Nay, school hath its pains also," replied 
Ate ; " but such are unknown of any, save 



unworthy boys, who care more for play than 
for book, and will learn nothing that is set 
them." 

" Well, an' they behave so ill, it be plain 
they deserve no better," observed the boy. — 
" Yet it seemeth to me from what I have 
learned of nurse Cicely in ballads and sto- 
ries, and from such sweet stories as you nave 
ofttimes repeated to me concerning of brave 
knights and fair ladies, that if other pleasures 
of a still sweeter sort are to be found in 
books, whereof you can know only by going 
to school and conning your lesson with all 
proper diligence, school cannot help being as 
pleasant a place for good boys as any goodly 
place that can be named." 

"Doubtless," answered the mother, evi- 
dently pleased at noting in her son such sen- 
sibleness at so early an age. Then she bu- 
sied herself in putting each part of his dress 
as it should be, smoothing this, and pulling 
down that, and turning him round with a 
thorough, yet most affectionate scrutiay, that 
no fault should escape her. At last, she 
appeared satisfied with her labors, and hang- 
ing round his neck a satchel, that looked as 
if it contained no great weight of books, she 
quickly put on her own hat and cloak, and, 
laying hold of him by one hand, carrying of 
a basket in the other, with many cheerful, 
pleasant words to his unceasing interrogato- 
ries, she led him out at the door. 

The good dame and her young son pro- 
ceeded together through a part of the town, 
with such passing commendation and salu- 
tations from such of the neighbors as were 
standing at their doors or approaching them 
as they went, till they came to the lane 
where John a Combe was set on by Master 
Buzzard and his man Saul, as hath been re- 
lated, when, in the middle of some speech of 
his, the boy let go his mother's hand, and so 
forgetful of school, of goodly books, and of 
sweet verses — which had formed the staple 
of his talking all along — as though such 
things had neVer been, he on a sudden, dart- 
ed oif as fast as he could after a butterfly 
that came flying past him. Dame Shak- 
speare called many times, but it appeared as 
if he heard not her voice, for with his hat in 
his hand he run, now on one side of the lane, 
now on the other, and now dodging hither 
and thither wheresoever the dainty insect 
spread its delicate wings, as if there could 
not be in this whole world any one thing of 
such huge importance to him as the catching 
of that butterfly. At last, his mother was 
obliged to hasten after him, finding he heed- 
ed not her calling, called she evur so, and 
succeeded in overtaking her little truant, 
just as he stood, with his hat thrown on the 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



grass in a vain essay to catch what he had 
Seen in such earnest chase of — with hands 
and eyes uplifted, watching with some vex- 
edness in his aspect, the swift retreat of the 
enticing insect over the hedge. 

Some scolding followed this as the good 
dame wiped her son's hot face, and dusted 
and smoothed his hat, and set it on his head 
again; but he made such famous excuses 
concerning of the marvelous beautifulness 
of this same butterfly beyond-all butterflies 
he had ever seen, that the loving mother 
contented herself in the end with kissing 
him, and bidding him never again run from 
her side. The great delight he had found 
in what he had previously talked so largely 
of now left him altogether, and he could say 
nought, save of what rare pleasure would 
have been his had it been his good hap to 
have captured that choice fly, with sundry 
pertinent questions concerning of whence 
came such brave toys, how lived they, and 
whether they could not be kept at home, and 
fed on marchpane, and such other delicates 
as he could give them, to all which she 
answered as she best could. On a sudden 
he started a new subject, for spying of many 
wild flowers on the bank he must needs stop 
to gather some. In vain his mother re- 
minded him of what great promise he had 
made of diligence in learning, and alacrity 
in going t« school, he implored so movingly, 
she could not help allowing him what he re- 
quired of her ; and this led to his stopping 
at other flowers he saw, to do the like thing, 
"making such pretty exclamations of admira- 
tion at the sight of them, that the good dame 
could not iind it in her heart to speak of 
his tarrying as he did, with any harshness. 
Presently, a bird flitting through the hedge, 
would make him pause in a strange wonder 
to look after it ; and all his talk of flowers 
in a moment changed to as importunate a 
questioning upon the birds. Indeed, school 
now seemed to have no more charm for him 
than hath the brightest landscape for a blind 
man ; and he kept so tarrying for this thing 
and for the other, as showed he was in no 
little reluctance to be taken away from such 
fair sights. 

Certes, it is a long lane that hath no turn- 
ing, and the boy, with his mother, got at last 
to meir journey's end, which proved to be a 
low mean building at the outskirts of the 
'own, whereof part of the casement having 
been broken, the missing panes had been 
pasted over with leaves of copy-books. It 
was a wooden building, crumbling with age 
in many places, with a ragged thatch, of 
so dark a color it could not help being of 
some standing, underneath which were 



sundry nests, with the birds flying in and 
out ; and upon it, up to The roof-top, was a 
famous company of sparrows, flitting about 
and making so great a chirruping as was 
wonderful to hear. The door being open, 
there was heard a low murmuring as of the 
humming of a whole hive of bees, which 
increased in loudness as they came nearer 
till it was interrupted by a loud rough voice, 
calling out " Silence !"' when it sunk a little. 
At this moment they entered at the door. 
They came first into a chamber with a brick 
flooring, where they saw a number of small 
boys ; some seated upon old forms, clipped 
at the corners, and carved with letters of 
every sort, as might be seen by tire empty 
ones ; and others, in groups, standing before 
one or two bigger boys, each of whom held 
a book as if hearing others their lessons ; 
but as soon as the strangers were observed, 
there was seen on the instant, an infinite 
lack of both learning and teaching amongst 
all. One whispered to another — others 
pointed — and some stood up to have a better 
view; and all stretched their necks, and 
strained their eyes, in a very absolute mar- 
vel, as to the intent of the dame and her son 
in coming there at that time. 

The two were curiously and steadfastly 
gazed on by every boy there, as they ad- 
vanced up two steps that led to a part of 
the same chamber, having a boarded floor, 
where were some long desks, at which 
bigger boys had been writing of copies, with 
one of a greater height at the top, where 
sat on a tail stool no less a personage than 
Stripes the shoolmaster, of whom the reader 
hath already some knowledge. He sat up 
stiff as a post ; his gaunt visage as thin and 
shar.p as though his ordinary diet was of 
flint stones, or other such matter that afford- 
eth wonderful poor nourishment ; his hair 
and beard standing in great need of the bar- 
ber's art ; an old gaberdine on, which for its 
rags the cursedest old Jew that ever clipped 
coin would have been ashamed to have been 
seen in; his falling bands rumpled and 
soiled ; his bases open at the knees, and his 
hose in slovenly folds falling down his shrunk 
shanks to his heels, where a pair of huge 
pantofles, of the oldest out of ail doubt, hid 
in some measure the numberless holes that 
had there begun to show themselves. He 
held a cane upright in one hand, and in the 
other a book, having before him a boy, who 
by the earnest scratching of his head, and the 
intentness of his gaze at the broken ceiling, 
had doubtless come to a halt in his lesson ; 
and his dull stupid face wore an aspect of 
severe seriousness, which boded no good to 
the young student. But for all this as ha 



00 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



caught sight of Dame Shakspeare with her 
son advancing towards him, the cane was 
put out of sight in the twinkling of an eye, 
and a sort of something that was meant to 
be a smile became visible in his cadaver- 
ous countenance, as he gave the unprepared 
scholar back his book, and bade him to his 
place. 

Marvelous to look on was the suavity with 
which the pedagogue heard Dame Shaks- 
peare say she had brought her son William 
to have his schooling, hoping he would prove 
an apt scholar ; thereupon famously did he 
launch out into all manner of fine scholar- 
like phrases, whereof it was in no way easy 
for any to find where lay the sense, and then 
proceeded he to catechise the child in a 
monstrous pedantical humor, and to examine 
him as to the extent of his acquirements in 
the rudiments of profane learning ; and al- 
though the boy showed some shyness, which 
was exceeding natural at his age, before so 
forbidding a person, yet, by dint of his 
mother's praises, he was got to evince a 
tolerable acquaintance with the spelling of 
simple words. All this time the curious- 
ness of the entire school exceedeth concep- 
tion. No sign of studiousness was visible 
in any ; instead of which the eyes and ears 
of the whole assembly were bent upon get- 
ting the completest knowledge of what was 
going on ; and whilst some of the highest 
part of the school kneeled on their seats, or 
leaned over their school-fellows, sundry of 
the bottom part stood on their forms, and a 
few crept up the steps, with countenances 
all agog to learn as much as they could of 
this strange matter. 

" And 1 have brought you here a fine 
capon for your own eating, worthy Mr. 
Stripes," said Dame Shakspeare to the 
schoolmaster, whose mouth seemed to water 
at the very name of such delicate food, as 
she took from her basket a fowl carefully 
wrapped about in a clean white cloth ; " the 
which I hope will prove to your liking, and 
I do trust you will favor me in what my 
heart most covets, so much as to give what 
attentiveness you can to my boy's schooling, 
that he may do you credit in his after 
years." 

" I am a very heathen an' I do not," 
replied he, taking the gift with a famous 
willingness. 

" Then I will now leave him to your 
charge," observed the dame, and, kissing of 
her young son, with a loving admonition to 
be a good boy and speed in his learning, she 
departed out the door. Stripes, first placing 
of his new scholar amongst others of his 
age in the lower room, which movement of 



his caused a famous show of studiousness 
amongst all the boys he came nigh, and 
setting him a lesson, returned to his desk ; 
and then, undoing the cloth, examined the 
capon both with his eyes and his nose, 
with such extreme satisfaction, it looked as 
though he cared not to wait for the cooking. 
At last, putting it in the cloth again, he 
marched with it out at a door close upon his 
desk, feasting his eyes upon it as he went. 
Scarce had the door well closed upon him, 
when there arose such a hubbub in the 
school, of talking and shouting one to 
another of all the boys concerning of the 
new comer ; those who had some know- 
ledge of his parentage telling others who 
had none, and some of the bigger boys 
leaving their places to have a closer view of 
him, or ask him questions, as seemed to 
astonish William Skakspeare exceedingly ; 
but he was not allowed to be in a long 
marvel, for the door opened presently, and 
then there was an instant scuttling to places, 
and an infinite affection of attentiveness 
everywhere. Speedily as this was done it 
escaped not the eye of the master, who 
seized on his cane in a twinkling as soon 
as he had entered, with an eye of severe 
menace, and thundered out his commands for 
sundry of the offenders to come up to him 
without delay ; for although he was so ob- 
sequious in his spirit before Sir Nathaniel 
and others he was fearful of offending, no 
greater a tyrant ever lived than was he to his 
scholars. » 

" So, Jemmy Sheepshanks !" cried he, as 
the first offender approached him with some 
backwardness ; " prithee, what need hadst 
out of thy proper seat without any color of 
warrant, thou horribly abominable young 
caitiff?" 

•' An' it please you, master, I only " 

" Silence !" shouted the pedagogue in a 
voice that appeared to make the little cul 
prit shake in his shoes. 

" Art not ashamed to have accommodatea 
thy worthlessness with the graces of my 
instruction for so long a time as thou hast, 
and never so much as brought me a single 
egg, much less a fine capon, such as worthy 
Dame Shakspeare, on her first coming, hath 
appurtenanced me with — and thy mother 
having such a prodigal store of poultry? 
By Jove, his searching thunders ! thou art 
as barren of good fruit as a whipping-post. 
Prithee, hold me thy digital extremity." 

" In good fay, master, I only went " 

" Thy hand, Jemmy Sheepshanks !" bawl- 
ed Stripes, in a manner which brought forth 
a right dolorous wailing, and the tremulous 
projection of a palm of considerable dirtiness 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



fil 



A few inches befoite the offender's stomach. 
" Elevate it somewhat!" continued he, eye- 
ing the shaking ringers as a vulture would 
the prey he was about to sweep down upon. 
" Somewhat more .'" added he in a louder 
voice ; and whack went the descending cane 
across the dirty little hand. " Ya !" scream- 
ed the boy, and thereupon he doubled him- 
self up as if he had an inward pain of great 
fierceness, and then he shook his hand and 
rubbed it against his jerkin, and held it in 
the other, as though he had a hot cinder in 
it, and made such a yelling all the whilst 
as was pitiful to hear. 

" And now thy sinister manus ; for rae- 
thinks it be very monstrous injustice one 
should 'scape, and the other not," observed 
the schoolmaster, getting his weapon in 
readiness. 

" Nay, o' my life, good Master Stripes !" 
roared the urchin in a deprecating tone ; 
but he was not let off so easily, for the left 
hand presently fared as badiy as the right, 
and then, with a parting crack o' the crown 
for jerking his hand away, so that the peda- 
gogue missed it more than once, Jemmy 
Sheepshanks in a terrible uproar was sent 
back to his seat. The rest of those who had 
been called up looked on as though they 
would have given all they were worth to 
have been a good hundred miles from the 
spot. The other boys were studying of 
their separate tasks with a teeming dili- 
gence that could never have been exceeded, 
and their new schoolfellow was thinking in 
his mind, from this first example he had had 
of school, it was no such brave place after 
all. Each of the offenders went through 
the same discipline, save the last, and was 
as well reminded as the first had been of 
certain remissness on his part in not having 
brought some nice thing or other for their 
worthy master. 

" Ha, Mat Turnspit ! thou art most su- 
perlatively offensive !" exclaimed the peda- 
gogue, looking at the remaining one with 
the same savage aspect as had been the 
forerunner of the other's punishments. " I 
have cast up the sum of thy offences, the 
product whereof " 

" An' it please you, master, father killed 
a hog last night," cried out the boy sharply, 
yet not without some trepidation. 

" Marry, what then ? The particulars — 
the conclusion, I prithee !" cried his master. 

" An' it please you," answered little Mat, 
" mother told me to say, an' your worship's 
Btomach stood in any way affected towards 
pig's chitlings, she would send you as 
famous a dish of them as should delight the 
cockles of your heart mightily." 



" Thy mother, I would wager to be as 
honest a woman as any of her inches," ob- 
served Stripes, his aspect of a sudden chang- 
ing to an absolute graciousness. " And 
touching pig's chitlings, I would have thee 
communicate to her auditories, I consider 
them a savoury diet as any thing that can 
be eaten, and will accept of a dish with 
abundance of thanks. As for thyself, Mat 
Turnspit, I doubt not thou hadst excellent 
cause for being out of thy seat. Get thee 
back again straight, and be sure thy re- 
membrance plays not the truant with the 
pig's chitlings." 

After this, the first class were called up 
to their reading lesson, and putting up their 
copies, each holding of a book, presently 
stood in a half circle before their teacher, 
who, seated on his high stool, with his cane 
in his hand, and the lesson before him, 
never failed to apply the former to the palms 
of such as were amiss in their reading — 
constantly commenting on the exceeding 
properness of behavior shown by Dame 
Shakspeare and Dame Turnspit, in the mat- 
ter of the fat capon and the pig's chitling's. 
All this while there was a famous thinking 
going on in the young mind of the new 
scholar, whose faith in the pleasantness of 
schools diminished with every blow he heard 
given, till at last he came to the conclusion, 
that it was the very horriblest bad place he 
had ever entered : nevertheless he applied' 
himself to his lesson as earnestly as he 
might, with no greater interruption than 
what came from some little neighbor sliding 
up to him with a civil speech, intent upon 
being on the best terms with a schoolfellow 
so well recommended to their master. 

As Stripes was very furious lecturing of 
a boy, about to undergo the customary dis- 
ci pUne, the door behind him opened, and 
there appeared at it a strange looking object 
in the likeness of an overgrown boy. To 
all appearance, the schoolmaster looked as 
lean a dog as ever licked an empty trencher, 
but he was of a very corpulency in com- 
parison with the walking bunch of bones 
known throughout the town as Skinney Dick- 
on, the schoolmaster's boy, that now entered 
the school-room. His face had the project- 
ing jaws of a ravenous crocodile, with the 
complexion of a kite's foot, and his rusty 
hair straggled over his skull like a mop 
worn to the very stump — this was support- 
ed on a long thin neck bare of all clothing 
to the shouider blade, where a leather jerkin, 
made for a boy half his size, was buttoned 
tight with a small skewer (for lack of but- 
tons, which had all been worn off), whereof 
the sleeves came only to his elbows, show- 



52 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



ing his naked arms, like the picked drum- 
sticks of some huge fowl, with the claw left 
on. A pair of greasy gaskins, that seemed 
as though they had been made for a grass- 
hopper, encased the lower part of his body 
to his knees, below which two bare legs, as 
barren of calf as an andiron, descended till 
they were partly lost sight of in two old 
shoes, whereof the wide gaping of the upper 
leathers told plainly of the whereabouts of 
the owner's ten toes. 

"How now, Dickon!"' exclaimed his 
master, as soon as he became aware of the 
other's vicinity. 

" An' it pul-pul-pul-pul, please your wor- 
ship, the kick-kick-kick-kick cat's run off 
with the kick-kick-kick-kick capon." 
Scarce had the words got loose from the 
chopping teeth of his stuttering boy, ere 
Stripes jumped from his stool with a ludi- 
crous astounded look, and brushing by his 
intelligencer with such furiousness as to 
lay him his length on the floor, sought the 
thief, swearing all sorts of horrible oaths 
and direful imprecations ; after running 
frantically to and fro, the enraged school- 
master spied puss on a shelf in an outhouse, 
tearing up the flesh of the fowl after a 
fashion as evinced her appreciation of its 
goodness. She was an old, large, black 
animal, whose projecting ribs manifested 
the like relationship with famine as appear- 
ed in the master and boy ; and made despe- 
rate by extreme hunger, she raised her back, 
glared with her green eyes, and commenced 
so brisk a spitting and swearing, as the 
schoolmaster, in a terrible tearing passion, 
began cutting at her with his cane — though 
at a respectful distance — as proved she 
would not be got to part with her prize with- 
out a tustle ; and mayhap he would have 
been but badly off had she flown at him, the 
which she appeared monstrously inclined to 
do, but at this moment she spied Dickon 
hastening to the rescue with the stump of a 
broom, which caused her to make a move- 
ment as though she would carry off her 
booty — however, before she had got a firm 
hold of the fowl with her old teeth, Dickon 
gave her so sore a blow with his weapon as 
sent her flying off the shelf into an open 
water-butt that stood a yard or so off where- 
upon she was glad enough to save her nine 
lives the best way she could, as if capons 
had, never been. 

This occurred not without some stir in 
the school ; but scarce had Stripes returned 
to his desk after placing of his heart's trea- 
»ure in a place of safety, when his anatomy 
of a boy again made his appearance at the 
open door, at sight of whom he opened his 



lanthorn jaws, quite aghast with surprise, 
thinking that the villainous cat had again 
made away with his dainty; but Dickon' 
came only to announce the arrival of one 
Mother Flytrap on an errand of conjuring, 
which speedily allayed his master's alarm. 
Dismissing the class to their seats with a 
perilous threat kept they not as quiet as 
mice till his return, the pedagogue stalked, 
with an air of marvellous solemnity — little 
in accordance with his slovenly gaunt figure 
— into an inner chamber, meanly furnished 
with an old table and a chair or two, yet, 
having, in the shape of a globe in the win- 
dow, a snake in a bottle over the chimney, 
and a curious hieroglyphic book spread out 
upon the table : various signs that it was 
in especial use for learned purposes. A 
little woman, whose shrivelled skin savored 
of some antiquity, stood in a corner of the 
chamber, in a grey cloak and peaked hat, 
leaning with both hands upon a stick she 
held before her. 

" An' it please your worship," began she, 
parting the exceeding closeness of her nose 
and chin, and hobbling two steps forward 
as Stripes entered, " be it known to you, of 
all the days in the year, last Wednesday 
was a week, wanting of a spoon for a gossip 
of mine — as worthy a good soul as ever 
broke bread, for all it hath been said of her 
she taketh to her aquae vitas bottle more than 
is becoming an honest woman : — but Lord ! 
Lord ? who shall escape the bruit of slander- 
ous tongues in this cantankerous age ; — as 
I was a saying, over a sea-coal fire, at Dame 
Marigold's — who was making as famous a 
bowl of spiced ale, with a roasted crab, as 
ever passed mortal lips. Indeed, of all 
women 1 know, an' it please your worship, 
she excelleth in the brewing of such deli- 
cate liquor ; and last sheep-shearing I did 
hear little Jack Maggot, of Maggot Mill — 
he that got his head broke at a bout at single 
stick with Job Styles, the hedger of our 
town — say he knew none of these parts that 
had such cunning in these preparations. 
Mercy o' my heart ! I have known the 
time when Job Styles was better off than 
he is, by a good ten crowns a year. But 
we are all mortal." 

" Hast lost a spoon ?" enquired the school- 
master, when his companion stopped to take 
breath. 

" Ay, marry," replied Mother Flytrap, 
" as goodly a silver Evangelist as you shall 
find come of any god-father; and the only 
one of the four left. O' my word, it vexeth 
me to find the world groweth every day 
more dishonest ; and no more heed is taken 
of so goodly a gift as an Evangelist spoon. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



fta 



than of a dish of beans. Well — flesh is 
grass : so it's what we must all come to — 
more's the pity — more's the pity." 

" When lost thou this spoon ?" asked 
Stripes. 

" Marry, an' it please your worship, I 
know not," replied his companion ; " but 
last Wednesday was a week, as I have said, 
when it was getting nigh upon noon, I had 
made me a porridge fit for the Sophy, with 
good store of leeks in it, for my dinner, 
when who should enter at my door but 
Gammer Bavins, whose son went to the 
wars and died beyond seas ; whereupon de- 
siring of her to rest herself, as in all civil- 
ness I was bound, seeing that her mother's 
cousin's great uncle and my grannum 
were cousins - german, I asked of her 
to have some of my famous porridge, to 
the which she cheerfully gave her consent- 
ings ; and thinking 'twould be but respect- 
ful of me to allow of her having a silver 
spoon instead of a lattern one, the whilst* 
she was telling of me an excellent famous 
story of what brave eating was in porridge 
such as she was wont to make for her gaffer 
when he came home from the woods — for 
your worship must know he had been a 
woodman, and of some repute in the craft — 
and how monstrously he took to it when 
she could chop in a handsome piece of bacon 
fat, with a pinch of mustard — though for 
mine own part methinks good hog's lard in 
some quantity, with a sprinkling of bay salt^ 
giveth much the delicater flavor " 

" So the spoon was missing ?" here put 
in the schoolmaster. 

" La you ! what a wonderful conjuror is 
your worship !" exclaimed Mother Flytrap, 
lifting up her hands and eyes in amazement ; 
" ay, was it : and though I have since search- 
ed high and low in every crack and cranny 
hole and corner from housetop to floor, if I 
have caught as much as a glimpse of it 
there is no hotness in ginger. Peradven- 
ture " 

" Thou hast come to learn of thy missing 
spoon ?" said Stripes, knowing full well 
should he let her run on, there would be no 
stopping of her tongue. 

" Odds codlings, yes, an' it please you," 
replied she : " well ! never saw I your like 
at finding out things : as I live I said not a 
word of the sort. Mayhap your worship 
knoweth v/hom I suspect of stealing it ; and 
by my troth I doubt not it shall be found 
without some grounds, for she hath the re- 
putation of a horrible pilferer." 

" Thy suspicions rest upon a woman !" 
answered Stripes with a very proper solem- 
nity. 



"A grace of God! your worship must 
needs have dealings with the old one ! cried 
his companion in a famous astonishment; 
" Marian Eoosefish be as nigh 10 a woman 
as ever she will be, for she hath had two 
children and never a husband, and hath 
been thrice put into the stocks for misbe- 
comingness. But we are all mortal. More's 
the pity — more's the pity !" 

" And thou wouldst have me ascertain by 
virtue of my art, with what correctness thou 
dost suspect this woman ?" added the school- 
master. 

" Ay, dear heart, out of all doubt, and I 
have brought your worship as exquisite nice 
a black-pudding as ever was made," an- 
swered the other, producing from under her 
cloak a large sausage of this sort, which 
her companion eased her of with marvellous 
alacrity ; " and will, besides, give your wor- 
ship a tester for your pains, provided you 
can put the stealing of it upon her with such 
certainty she shall never be able to deny it, 
and so I get back my spoon again." 

" Prithee stay where thou art, and keep 
strict silence," said the schoolmaster, with 
a very earnest seriousness, as he took a 
long black wand out of a corner, and put on 
his head a strange looking conical cap of a 
blood-red color, which made his visage look 
all the more lean and ghastly ; then gazed 
he with terrible severity on his book, turning 
over the leaves for some minutes, Mother 
Flytrap looking on with a fearful curious- 
ness, as dumb as a stone. 

" Mercury in the sixth house," muttered 
the conjurer as if to himself. 

" I warrant you that is my house ; for 
mine is just the sixth in the row as you enter 
the town," observed she. 

" Silence, woman !" shouted Stripes, au- 
thoritatively, then presently added in an un- 
der tone — " Jupiter and Venus in conjunc- 
tion, whereof the affinities in equilibrio being 
geometrical to their qualities, giveth sign of 
some heavy metal, of an express white color, 
and in shape of some narrowness, with a 
concavity at the determination. Ha ! what 
meaneth this ! — Diana under a cloud " 

" That's her -an' it please you !" said 
Mother Flytrap, eagerly ; " she hath been 
' under a cloud' at sundry several times, 
which will be well known of many, for she 
is as absolute a " 

"Peace, I tell thee !" bawled the conju- 
ror ; a wouldst turpify my astrologicals ? 
Prithee hold thy prate :" after which he 
continued without other interruption a deal 
more of similar heathenish words. " My 
art telleth me these three things," observed 
he to her at last, as grave as any judge • 



M 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



" to wif? — thy spoon hath been stolen, an' 
tfeou hast not mislaid it in some secret place ; 
— provided a thief hath got it, there shall be 
no doubt.it hath been stolen ; and should it 
be found upon Marian Loosefish, beyond all 
contradicting she may be suspected of the 
theft." 

" Wonderful !" cried the old woman, in a 
huge amazement ; u of all conjuring never 
heard I of anything like unto this ! I would 
have sworn it was her before your worship 
had told me a letter of her name ; for I have 
all along suspected her and no other. I 
protest I am in so great an admiration of 
your worship's marvellous deep knowledge. 
I scarce know what to be at. Odds cod- 
lings, what wonders the world hath !" 

" At thy peril, speak another word till I 
tell thee !" exclaimed the reputed conjuror, 
in a formidable solemn voice, as if desirous 
of still more impressing his customer with 
his thorough knowledge of the occult sci- 
ence : " I charge thee make no manner of 
noise, else ill will befall thee. I would know 
more of this matter, and will have my fami- 
liar to acquaint me with the particularities." 
At this the old dame, dumb with extreme 
fright and curiousness, backed herself into 
a corner of the chamber, as Stripes, waving 
of his wand mysteriously, and repeating 
some unintelligible jargon, stalked round 
and round the table. All at once they heard 
a horrible strange sort of sound, like unto 
the deep grunting of an over-fed hog, which 
the conjuror, in ignorance of its cause, fan- 
cied to be something unnatural coming to 
punish him for his vain-glorious boast of in- 
timacy with a familiar, and straightway 
stopped his conjurations ; and Mother Fly- 
trap, too frightened to speak, hearing the 
sounds, and observing the half-starved black 
cat at this . moment push her way through 
the unclosed door, — her back raised and her 
eyes glaring as she caught sight of her mas- 
ter with the uplifted wand, supposing he was 
about to punish her for her dishonesty, — had 
no doubt she was a demon invoked by the 
schoolmaster, and thereupon striking out with 
her stick convulsively before her, she com- 
menced crouching down into the corner, 
every time uttering of a scream so piercing 
it seemed as though she were about giving 
up the ghost. 

Her outcry soon brought Skinny Dickon 
into the chamber, who, spying of the two in 
such a terrible monstrous fear, looked from 
one to the other with his jaws gaping like a 
hungry pike, till hearing of the strange un- 
earthly sound, and seeing his master had 
been at his conjurations, a horrible suspicion 
seemed to come across him of a sudden ; 



and he dropped on his knees, as though he 
had been shot. Presently, some of the 
scholars came creeping towards the door, the 
back ones peeping over the forward ones 
shoulders, with aspects alarmed and anxious", 
and the old woman's screams continuing,- 
sundry of the neighbors rushed in at another 
door by which she had herself entered, mar- 
velling prodigiously to hear such a distur. 
bance ; and marvelling the more, to note 
what they beheld at their entrance. 

"In God's name, neighbor, what meaneth 
this strange scene ?" enquired a sober 
honest-looking artisan, in his leathern apron 
and cap, gazing from one to an other of the 
group in famous astonishment. 

" Ya !" screamed Mother Flytrap, again 
crouching down in the corner, and poking 
out her stick, with her eyes fixed upon the 
object of her exceeding terror, as though it 
held a spell over her. 

" Mum-mum-mum-mum-Master's been — 
rer-rer-rer-rer-raising the devil !" stuttered 
out Dickon, as plain as he could, for the 
fright he was in. 

" Ya !" repeated the old woman; with the 
same look and gesture. 

"He's there ?" muttered the trembling 
schoolmaster, pointing to a closet whence 
the sounds seemed to proceed; whereupon 
there was an instant -backward movement 
of his neighbors, save only the artizsjn ; and 
the old woman screamed more lustily than 
ever, for she believed the cat was meant, as 
having her gaze fixed upon the animal, she 
had not seen where the frightened pedago- 
gue had pointed. 

"With the Lord's help, mayhap I will 
unkennel him, if there he be," observed the 
artisan, making a forward movement. 

" Nav, 'o my life, David Hurdle, thou 
must be mad, sure !" exclaimed one ; and 
others cried out against his seeking of such 
danger, and many were for holding him, to 
prevent his destruction, as they thought. 

" Fear nought," said the artisan, break- 
ing from his alarmed neighbors ; " we are 
in the Lord's hands. He will not deliver 
his people into the power of the spoiler." 
Then walking boldly up to the closet, the 
door of which he fearlessly opened, he ad- 
ded, in a firm voice, " I charge thee, if thou 
art an unclean spirit, depart from the dwell- 
ing of this man." 

The interior was too dark for any there 
to see into, therefore was nothing visible; 
but the terror-struck people noticed the in- 
stantaneous stoppage of that smothered 
grunting which sounded so unearthly ; and 
could plainly enough distinguish a rustling 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



53 



aa of some one mo ring, which again caused 
an instant rush to the door. 

" I charge thee begone I" cried David 
Hurdle, undauntedly. 

"What dost charge me?" grumbled a 
deep thick voice from the closet. " Prithee, 
keep it on the score, and give us 'tother pot. 
Eh, Ticklebreeeh ?" 

"As I live 'tis Sir Nathaniel !" cried se- 
veral voices at once, to the wonderful relief 
of the rest; and sure enough, Sir Nathaniel 
it was, who, after so absolute a carouse the 
previous night with his customary boon 
companions, his senses had completely left 
him, had returned home with the school- 
master, without whose knowledge he had 
thrust himself into the closet, where he had 
been snoring the whole morning, coiled up 
like a monstrous caterpillar ; whereby he 
had put so sudden a stop on his friend's 
conjurations, and had nigh driven Mother 
Flytrap out of her five wits. 



CHAPTER VII. 

The mery lark, mesengere of the day 
Saluteth in her song the morowe gray ; 
And fine Phebus ryseth up, so bright 
That all the orient laugheth at the sight : 
And with his stremis dryeth in the greves, 
The silver dropis hanging in the leves. 

Chaucer. 
For I am servant of the lawe, 
Covetouse is myne ovvne felowe. 

Old Morality. 
Out on you theefles, bouth two ! 
Eieh man maye see you be soe, 

Alby your araaye 
Muffled in mantles none such I know, 
I shall make you lowte full lowe, 
Or I departe you free. 

Antichrist. 

Master Buzzard sat at a 'table eating 
of a pasty made of game birds, and ever and 
anon flinging a bone to one of the many 
dogs looking wistfully up at him. He was 
taking of his morning repast in the same 
hall of his, which hath before been des- 
cribed, at interims enjoying frequent and 
plentiful draughts at a tankard that stood 
close at his trencher ; and then again, 
swearing lustily at such of the dogs who, in 
their impatience to have of the delicate 
victual, mayhap would leap to his lap, or re- 
mind him of their nearness by giving him a 
smart blow of the leg with one of their fore- 
paws. At a respectful distance, with his 
hat on his knees, and his stick beside it, sat 
the Bhrunk-up figure and parchment physi- 



ognomy of Jemmy Catchpole, the town 
lawyer, seneschal, baliff, attorney, and stew- 
ard, as he was indifferently styled. 

" All precepts have been served, an' it 
please you," observed Jemmy Catchpole ; 
" we have him in fee simple with fine and 
recovery, but the defendant pleadeth extreme 
poverty, and prayeth in aid that the suit may 
be stopped from and after the determination 
of the last action, else shall he be forced to 
such shifts as shall put your honor's hand 
and seal to his ruin, and cut the entail from 
all remainders in perpetuity — in witness 
whereof he hath but now demised, granted, 
and to farm-let his desire to me that I might 
be a feodary in this act for such an interval- 
lura as your honor may please to allow." 

" An I wait another hour I'll be hanged !" 
rudely exclaimed Master Buzzard, thumping 
the table with his fist with such force as to 
startle some of the hawks. " If he hath not 
the means of paying his bond, strip him of 
what he hath. What ! Shall I lend my 
money to a paltry burgess, and he do me ill 
offices, and then, when cometh time for 
payment, shall such a fellow think to get off 
by whining a dolorous plaint concerning of 
his poverty ? 'Slife ! when I let him, cut 
me into collops for my hounds." 

" As your honor wills it," replied the 
lawyer ; " then will I, without let or hin- 
drance, plea or demurrer, make an extent 
upon his house and lands, immediately pro- 
vided in that case he doth not give instant 
quittance for his obligation." 

" Make him as barren as a rotten branch," 
cried the other, with a frowning indignant 
look that spoke as bitterly as his words. 
" At one swoop bear off his whole posses- 
sions. By God's body, an' thou leavest him 
as much as wo^ld keep his beggarly soul 
for a day, I will have nought to do with thee 
ever after." 

" I am mortgaged to your honor's will," 
observed his companion very humbly, as he 
took his hat and stick in his hand, and rose 
from his seat. Not long after he had taken 
himself out of the hall, there entered Saul, 
booted and spurred, and soiled with dust, as 
though he had just come off a journey. 

" Ha, Saul, art there !" cried his master, 
his sullen features brightening up abit at the 
sight of his man ; " I expected thee not so 
soon. But how fareth my noble kinsman ?" 

" As comfortless as a hound covered with 
bots," replied Saul, putting on a grin at his 
conceit. " Down Towler ! Away Bess ! 
Back Ponto !" cried he, as sundry of the 
dogs came leaping up to him, in sign of his 
having staid from them some time. His 
honorable lordship walketh about like a das' 



56 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



lurbed spirit ; liis face has lost the humor 
of smiling, and carryeth the affectation of 
melancholy with as much intentness as a 
lean raven. He crosseth his arms, and 
paceth his chamber, and sigheth heavily, 
and seemeth to have parted with all enjoy- 
ment in this world ; were he papist now, I 
doubt not he would turn monk presently." 

" 'Tis well," observed Master Buzzard, 
taking to his meal as if with a fresh appe- 
tite, at hearing such intelligence ; " 1 am 
infinitely glad matters go on there so bravely. 
Here, assay some of this pasty. Perchance, 
thou art a hungered after thy ride." Saul 
waited not for a second bidding, but with the 
familiarity of a long-tolerated villain, drew 
to the table, and helped himself without 

• etint. 

" What dost think, Saul ?" inquired his 
master, putting down his knife, and looking 
with a peculiar knowingness at his man, 
after they had been silently discussing the 
pasty for some few minutes. 

" I'faith, I know not, master," replied the 
other, raising his eyes from his trencher. 

"I have got that lewd rascal and poor 
knave in my toil at last," said Master Buz- 
zard. 

" What, John Shakspeare ?" asked his 
companion, as though in a sort of pleased 
surprise. 

" No other," answered his master, evi- 
dently with a like devilish satisfaction. 
" He shall presently be turned upon this 
world as bare as a callow owlet. I have 
taken care he shall be stripped of all his sub- 
stance, even to his Sunday jerkin, and sent 
adrift as complete a beggar as ever lived." 

" O' my life, excellent !" exclaimed his 
man, chafing of his hands as if in great 
glee ; " body o' me, I have not heard such 
pleasant news this many a day. He will 
never fine me forty shillings again for brea- 
king a man's head, I'll warrant, or coop me 
a whole day in the cage, on suspicion of 
being over civil to a comely woman, as his 
high baliffship hath done. Well an' I make 
not good sport of this, count my liver as 
white as a boiled chicken. But here's a 
goodly stock of patience to him, that he may 
bear this pitiful change of fortune as he 
best may !" And so saying, he lifted the 
tankard to his mouth, and took a hearty 
draught of it. . 

" He hath no John a Combe now to help 
him at his need," added Master Buzzard. 

• " Methinks too I have carved out such work 
for that wight as will keep him like a rat to 
his hole : for I have at last taken such ven- 
geance as will hurt him more than ever our 



rapiers could, had we succeeded as I at first 
wished." 

" Truly, he showed himself a very devil 
at his weapon," observed the other ; " and 
handled me so in the lane — a murrain on 
him ! I shall bear on my body the marks of 
his handwriting to my life's end: therefore, 
am I all the more glad you have given him 
his deserts." 

" Now truss me with all speed," said his 
master, at the finishing of his repast, " for 
I am bound to Sir Thomas Lucy's, and must 
needs appear becomingly before his wor- 
ship." 

" Ay, marry," replied Saul, trussing his 
master's points. Shortly after which Master 
Buzzard mounted his horse, which had been 
got ready for him at the gate, and rode off 
in the direction of Fulbroke Park. 

It was a fresh morning at the latter end 
of April, and great rains had fallen for some 
time, the young foliage was marked with 
such transparent green as was truly deli- 
cate to see — the hedges being fairly clothed 
all in their new liveries, save here and there 
a backward hawthorn, or a stump of an old 
oak the last frosts had taken a stout hold of, 
showed its unsightly bare branches. On the 
banks thsre was no lack of verdure, sprink- 
led in famous plentifulness with groups of 
primroses, cuckoo flowers, snap-jacks, dai- 
sies, cowslips, violets, and other sweet har- 
bingers of the summer season. The small 
birds were making a brave chirruping in 
and out of the hedges — sparrows, linnets, 
finches, and tits, out of all number — anon, 
the traveler would disturb a blackbird cr 
thrush feeding, who would fly off with some 
noise — close over the adjoining field of rye, 
high-soaring, was seen the lark, pouring 
from her throat such a gush of thrilling 
music as nought else in nature hath compa- 
rison with ; at openings in the hedge might 
be observed glimpses of the adjoining coun- 
try, which looked very prettily — here, a pas- 
ture with numberless sheep on it all cleanly 
cropped from the late shearing, among which 
the young lambs were beheld making excel- 
lent sport with each other, or running with 
an innocent plaintive " ba" to the mother 
ewe, whose deeper voice ever and anon came 
in with a pleasant harmony — there, a field 
partly ploughed by a team of oxen, followed 
by a choice company of rooks, who came to 
make prey of the worms that were turned up 
in the furrows — and not a stone's throw from 
them was a man scattering of seed in the 
newly raised soil — whilst close at hand were 
sundry old people busily engaged at weeding 
a coming crop. Other fields, of various dif- 
ferent tints, stretched themselves out far and 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



m 



wide, till nought could be seen but the hedge 
rows ; and the far off hills and woods, the 
greenness whereof seemed to vanish in the 
distance to a deep dark blue. 

Nothing of all this brave sight was noticed 
by Master Buzzard, who rode on his horse 
with a tercel on his wrist, and a brach-hound 
at his horse's heels, careless of all things in 
nature save only his own selfish schemings 
and villanous plottings against the happiness 
of others. He was one for whom the beau- 
ties around him had no attractions at any 
time, unless, peradventure, it afforded him 
good sport in hawking or in such other pas- 
times as he took delight ; in fact, from a rio- 
tous, headstrong youth, he had grown to be a 
man void of all principle, seeking his own 
pleasures, heedless of whatsoever might be 
in their way ; and never hesitating to stoop 
to any villainy that promised employment to 
his bad passions, and advantage to himself. 
Such a one nature might look in the face, 
smiling in all her most exquisite comeliness, 
and he would take of her no more heed than 
would he the squalid lineaments of a beggar's 
callet. Indeed, the numberless moving graces 
of our inestimable kind mother, can only be 
sufficiently appreciated by those whose eye- 
sight is free from sensual and selfish films, 
and whose deep hearted love helpeth their 
vision more admirably than can any glasses, 
nowever magnifying they may be. 

Master Buzzard proceeded on his journey 
at a briskish amble, seemingly by the con- 
traction of his brows, and unpleasing gravity 
of his aspect, to be meditating somewhat; but 
of what he was thinking I care not to tell ; for 
it is a standing truth, a bad man's thoughts 
will do good to none. Sometimes he would 
start from his reflections to whistle to his 
hound, should the dog seem inclined to wan- 
der away upon the fresh trail of coneys or 
hares ; and then swear a lot of terrible oaths 
when she returned to his side ; or he would 
walk his horse, to talk and trifle with his 
hawk ; and then, tired of that, away he would 
bound again, through the deep lanes, and over 
the fields, to Charlcote, with his dog some 
little way behind, carrying of her nose close 
to the ground, or running on before with a 
sharp quick bark, constantly stopping and 
twirling of her head around to look back at 
her master ; and away again, as though it 
was fine sport to her to be so early a roving. 
Thus they went till they came to a white 
gate, at the which Master Buzzard was 
forced to dismount to open it, and then rode 
on again through a pasture marked by sweep- 
ing undulations, dotted here and there with 
magnificent oaks and beeches, through which 
Ute sunshine came in glances, in a manner 



as if desirous of having the best aspects of 
this sylvan scene. 

Here the palfrey ambled his prettiest paces, 
for the close herbage was as velvet to his 
hoofs, and he stretched out his neck, and 
shook his mane, and pawed the ground as he 
went, in a marvellous fine fashion : but all at 
once he stopped of a sudden, for right across 
his path, a little in advance of him, there 
rushed a numerous troop of deer, and Master 
Buzzard had a great to do m shouting and 
whistling to call back his brach-hound, who 
at the first glance of them was for giving 
chase at the top of her speed. It was a 
famous sight to see them bounding across 
the wide valley, and then up the next accliv- 
ity, where they stopped, — perchance to note 
if they were pursued — the young fawns 
using their slender legs with exceeding swift- 
ness ; and amongst the rest might be seen a 
delicate white doe, made all the more mani- 
fest by the sleek backs of her dappled com- 
pany. Farther on more of these were met 
with, and, if at any distance, the bucks would 
not stir ; but with antlers erect, they would 
get together and examine the strangers with 
a marvellous bold front — anon a partridge 
would rise before the horse with a startling 
whirr ; and other signs of a like nature met 
them as they went, which proved plain 
enough that they were in some goodly park 
»or another. Peradventure, whilst Master 
Buzzard is making his way to Charlcote, 
the courteous reader will be right glad to be 
rid of his villanous company. 

At this time Sir Thomas Lucy and his 
dame were taking a morning's walk in their 
garden and orchards — mayhap to see how 
looked tile trees for fruit, and the ground for 
vegetables and flowers. These two were 
both of some age, that is to say, neither were 
short of fifty. The knight was somewhat 
older, of a middle size as regards length, yet 
his limbs were slim, and waist no great mat- 
ter. His countenance was of the simple 
sort, yet merry withal, for he affected a jest 
at times, and never failed to laugh at it the 
heartiest of any ; but his constant affecta- 
tion was of boasting what wild pranks he had 
done in his youth for all he was now a jus- 
tice of peace ; nevertheless when any offence 
was put upon him, he would take upon him- 
self to be in as monstrous a rage as the 
greatest man in the shire. He wore a high- 
crowned hat a little on one side, and moved 
his head with a jaunty air, humming of a 
song he had learned when at college ; and a 
short ruff surrounded his peaked grey beard. 
He wore a plum-colored doublet, with such 
boad stuffed breeches to his hose as had been 
lately in fashion, and carried his rapier as 



£8 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



daintily as any young gallant. As for his 
dame, she kept at his side with a dignity, as 
she imagined, becoming of her station ; for 
as she fancied a justice of peace to be nigh 
upon the most worshipful of all offices, and 
her husband, Sir Thomas, to be the most, 
famous justice that ever lived, anything in 
her behavior that might savor of levity she 
would have nought to do with — always ex- 
cepting she would laugh a little at her hus- 
band's jests, as she believed in all obedience 
she was bound, though she never failed to 
cry out " fie — fie" as she did it, when they 
smacked of any naughtiness. In short, she 
was a simple honest-hearted creature as any 
that lived, ever ready to make up with kind- 
ness what she wanted in sense. She was 
dressed in an excellent stiff brocade, with a 
long stomacher and a notable ruff, plaited 
and set out in the best fashion, and wore high- 
heeled shoes, which gave her walk a gravity 
she could not have otherwise attained ; and 
had her own hair partly concealed under a 
French hood. 

It may be remembered that it was this very 
lady of whom Master Buzzard spoke so un- 
civilly at William Shakspeare's christen- 
ing, touching a young child she had found 
in her walks abandoned of its parents, and 
had resolved to bring up tenderly ; but in 
truth, all he said was a most lewd libel, as I 
doubt not will readily be believed of him, for 
she was too simple a woman to do anything 
unlawful, and the child was a true foundling, 
to whom she had shown from tbe first a very 
womanly charity and affection. Her greatest 
faults were her unreasonable partialities, 
which blinded her completely. She could 
see no wrong in ought that was done by her 
husband, Sir Thomas, who was not altoge- 
ther blameless, — or her only son, a boy of at 
least fifteen years, and a very tyrant to the 
gentle Mabel, now grown to be a child of 
exquisite graces of disposition, and his junior 
by some five or six years. 

It hath already been said that the knight 
and his dame were taking of a morning's 
walk together ; but some way behind these 
was seen a fair girl, whose clustering light 
ringlets were caught up by every breeze that 
blew, setting off as admirable a mild, sweet 
countenance as the most innocent age of 
childhood ever exhibited. Behind her was a 
lubberly boy, dressed very daintily in doublet 
and hose like a young gentleman ; and he 
was amusing himself by picking up small 
stones and flinging them at her, many of 
which hit her sore thumps ; yet the only 
ilgn she showed of her dislike of such unci- 
vil treatment, was to beg he would not hurt 
her so much. These two were the poor 



foundling and the son of her benefactress— 
and this was a sample of the sort of treat- 
ment she had of him whenever he could get 
her away from the observation of those likely 
to check his rudeness ; for he knew of old 
she would never complain of him, let his 
usage of her be ever so bad, and therefore 
he might continue it, as he thought, with per- 
fect impunity. 

" Pray you, sweet Master Thomas, hit me 
not so hard !"' exclaimed the pretty Mabel, 
in such winning accents as one might have 
thought would have subdued a savage, as 
she strove unavailingly to save herself from 
the hard missiles with which she was pelted 
by putting up her little hands, and shrinking 
fearfully every time a stone was thrown. 

" Tut, how can I hurt thee, thou little 
fool ?" replied young Lucy, desisting not a 
moment from his unmannerly behavior. 

" Indeed, you do exceedingly, else would 
I say nought of the matter," added she. 

" Then thou shouldst have the wit to avoid 
my aim," said the boy with a rude laugh. — 
" But thou makest brave sport, Mabel. O' 
my life, I should like to have thee fixed to a 
stake as cocks are at a shrovetide, I warrant 
I'd give thee famous knocks." 

" I would do you no such unkindness, 
believe me," answered his fair companion. 
" Nor would I wish to hurt any that live." 

" The more fool thou," exclaimed her tor- 
mentor, t 

" I marvel you should use me so uncivil- 
ly," continued the poor girl, smarting with 
the pain from a fresh blow, " I am sure I 
have done nought that should give you any 
displeasure, and do all you require me at a 
moment's bidding, even though it may have 
in it a great distastefulness." 

"Marry, what infinite goodness!" cried 
the boy in a jeering manner. " Why, of 
what use art, if not to afford me some sport 
for the lack of better ? Dost know the dif- 
ference betwixt a good-for-nothing, beggarly 
brat and a young gentleman of worship ? — 
and what so fit, I prithee, as that the one 
should be the pastime of the other ?" 

" I would rather it should be in some 
other fashion, an' it please you," observed 
Ma,bel very humbly. " I will roll the ball 
that you should strike it, and then to my ut- 
most speed to bring it back to you again — I 
will be your horse, your spaniel, your deer ; 
nay, aught in this world you most approve 
of, and do all that in me lies to pleasure you, 
so that you give me no more cruel blows 
with those uncivil stones." 

" 'Tis my humor, I tell thee," sharply re- 
plied the petty tyrant. " And why should I 
be balked in my humor by so mean a per- 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



69 



•on? Thou art ever a crying out about 
thy hurts, forsooth ; and 1 doubt not at all 
thou art no more hurt than am I." 

" Nay, and indeed, sweet Master Tho- 
mas — " 

" Hold thy prate !" exclaimed he, picking 
up another missile, somewhat larger in size 
than what he had previously thrown, which 
he caught hold of because he would not 
wait to seek any smaller. " See, I have got 
me a stone of some bigness, and if thou art 
not nimble, 'tis like thy crown will stand 
some chance of being cracked." The poor 
child cowed down as she saw him fling ; but 
the blow struck hard, for a slight scream es- 
caped her involuntarily, as she hastily put up 
her hands to her head. v 

" Hang thee, why didst tbou not take heed 
as I told thee !" cried the unfeeling boy, 
searching about as if for another stone ; but 
it so happened that the cry of Mabel was 
heard by his parents, who turned back to see 
what caused it. The poor foundling was 
standing in exactly the same position as when 
she was struck. 

" Ha ! what aileth thee, Mabel ?" shouted 
Sir Thomas, as he approached her. " Hast 
been stung by a bee ? Well, 'tis but a small 
matter. But never knew I a woman yet that 
could not cry out lustily at trifles ; neverthe- 
less, received she any great damage that 
need not be told, she had the wit to hold her 
tongue. I warrant you." 

" Fie, fie !" exclaimed the dame, as usual, 
joining in the knight's laugh ; and then re- 
suming her customary dignity swept forward 
to see if there was anything amiss. 

" Thou shouldst not cry out, child, upon 
slight causes," added she, as she came close 
to the poor foundling. " Bees have stings, and 
as is exceeding natural they will use them 
when provoked to it, and perchance thou 
shalt be forced to bear the smart ; but 
come thou with me, I have in my closet the 

sovereignest remedy . Alack, what a 

sight is this !" cried the old lady in some 
amazement and alarm, as, in taking the 
child's arm, she noticed blood trickling 
through her fingers, and over her waving 
ringlets down to her back. 

" O' my life, dame, methinks she hath 
sufficient cause for her crying," observed 
the knight. "But how came this about? 
Dost know aught of the matter, son Tom ?" 
inquired he, as the boy came up to the spot. 

" 'Troth, father, I was flinging at a bird, 
and mayhap struck her by chance," said his 
Bon, as he noticed the mischief he had done. 

"Plague on't, why dost not take more 
toed V exclaimed his father. 

"lam not much hurt, I thank you,"' said 



Mabel, but so faintly as proved she was nigh 
upon swooning ; and, indeed, the blow had 
been so sharp it had stunned her for a time. 
" And Master Thomas meant not it should 
strike me." 

" Thou shouldst not have got in his way, 
child !" observed Dame Lucy, very gravely. 
" But come with me — this wound must be 
looked to straight." And so saying, she led 
the fair child along to the house, ma"king 
sage remarks all the way of the properness 
of little girls keeping away from places 
where any stones were being thrown. 

" I marvel thou shouldst be so awkward, 
son Tom,'" said the knight, as he followed 
slowly behind the other two. " Now, when 
I was of thy age, none could match me at 
flinging at a mark. Many's the cock-spar- 
row I have knocked off his perch ; nay, I 
have been so quick of eye as more than 
once, taking aim at a running leveret with 
a stone of less than an ounce weight, I 
have hit him between the ears, and tumbled 
him over as though he had been shot." 

Thus this unmannerly boy escaped the 
punishment he deserved for his heartless 
mischief, and thus the four returned to the 
house, the dame intent upon dressing the 
child's wound, for she was famous in the 
knowledge of simples, and in small surgery, 
as all good huswives should be ; and the 
knight rehearsing to his son what marvel- 
lous feats he had done in his boyhood with 
the flinging of stones. Close upon the en- 
trance they were met by a serving man, an- 
nouncing the arrival of Master Buzzard, 
come to see his worship on business. 

'* How fare you, Master Buzzard — how 
fare you," cried Sir Thomas, welcoming his 
visitor in the old hall, where he transacted 
justice business. " I must have your com- 
pany to dinner, Master Buzzard, when my 
dame shall do you all proper courtesies." 
Then, unheeding aught he had to say on 
the matter, the old knight gave instant or- 
ders that the horse of his guest should be 
well tended, and preparations made for as 
famous a dinner as the cook could provide. 
" Ha ! hast got a falcon ?" continued he. " I 
doubt not 'tis a brave bird by the look of it, 
Master Buzzard. Indeed, in my time, I have 
been as cunning in falconry as the best man 
living. I remember me I had a hawk of my 
own training that was the admiration of all 
the country, and lords and bishops and great 
courtiers came to beg that bird of me, but I 
would part with her on no account ; she 
went at her quarry as no bird ever did — and 
all of my own training. And how fareth 
your noble kinsman ?" 

" Bravely, I thank you, Sir Thomas," w 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



plied Master Buzzard courteously ; and then 
nolding out the bird, added, " this hawk is 
accounted one of ten thousand, as I doubt 
not you shall find her on trial, so I pray you 
accept of her, Sir Thomas, for I have had 
her trained so that she should be worthy of 
belonging to so excellent fine a judge." 

" Count me your debtor, Master Buzzard," 
said the knight, taking the gift very readily. 
" I shall be proud to do you any good ser- 
vice, believe me. By the mass, 'tis a brave 
bird ! And so your noble kinsman is well," 
continued he, as they sat together under a 
raised dais at the top of the hall. " I wonder 
if he hath forgot his old acquaintance, Tho- 
mas Lucy — valiant Thomas Lucy, as he was 
wont to call me, because once I got my head 
broke by a tinker for kissing of Ms wife. I re- 
member me now, his good lordship laughed 
when the fellow offered to solder it for me for 
a groat, and put his irons in the fire for the 
purpose. That was a good jest i' faith." 

"My lord often speaketh kindly of you, 
Sir Thomas,' ' replied his guest, though he 
had never heard his kinsman mention the 
knight's name. 

" O' my heart, doth he now ?" exclaimed 
Sir Thomas delightedly. " Well, we have 
been sad boys together that's a sure thing — 
such coney-catchers — such roysterers — such 
lads of metal were not to be found in all Ox- 
ford. We kept the college in a roar, that did 
we, with our tricks ; and if any of the citi- 
zens so much as said us nay, we would out 
with our toasting-irons and show them how 
famously we could pass the montant, the 
punto, the reverso, and other signs of our 
cunning in fence, till they were glad enough 
to take to their heels with whole skins. We 
had not our match at the duello, I promise 
you, and my lord was a3 choice a man at his 
weapon as might be met with in those days. 
As for me, he would say I deserved to be 
fencer to the Czar of Muscovy, I was so 
quick at it, and that my nimbleness of motion 
made me as difficult to be hit as a flea with a 
cannon ball ; odds my life, that was wittily 
said." 

'■ In truth, a notable jest," said his guest, 
joining in the justice's laugh. 

" And so he wears well, doth he, Master 
Buzzard ?" inquired the knight. " I'm glad 
on't — heartily glad on't — for he was a true, 
jovial spirit as ever I have met with, and I 
have known some mad fellows in my time, I 
warrant you. 'Troth, you would marvel fa- 
mously to hear of what terrible, wild doings 
I have been a party to in my younger days 
— a March hare was not so mad as was I — 
Borne called me Hector of Greece, because 
of my valor — others the King of the Swing- 



bucklers, I was so ready to be a leader to the 
rest in any mischief. I was the terror of all 
the drawers round about, I would beat them 
so readily ; and the constables of the watch 
have oft been heard to say they would as lief 
meddle with a savage bear as lay a hand on 
me when I was in any of my wild humors. 
That is a fair hound of yours," continued 
he, all at once noticing the dog his guest had 
brought with him. " There are few so apt 
as am I in a proper knowledge of dogs. I 
can tell a good one on the instant. Indeed, 
I have been accounted as exquisite a judge 
in the breeding and breaking of them as could 
be found in the county ; and I have had in 
my time such dogs as could not be seen 
elsewhere. A fallow greyhound had I of a 
most choice breed that beat all she run 
against. O' my life, I have won such wages 
on that dog's head as are clean incredible. 
But your's is a fair hound, Master Buzzard, 
take my word for't." 

"'Tis at your service, Sir Thomas — I 
brought her here for no other intent," replied 
the other. 

" Nay, I cannot rob you of so fair a hound. 
Master Buzzard," said the justice, patting 
and commending the dog as she crouched at 
her master's feet. 

" You will do me wrong in denying me 
such a favor, Sir Thomas — so I pray you take 
her," answered his guest. 

" Nay, I should be loth to do any man 
wrong !" exclaimed the knight with great 
earnestness. " Methinks a justice of peace 
should be no wrong-doer — so I will e'en ac- 
cept of your hound, and thank you very 
heartily. Is there aught in which my poor 
ability may do you a service, Master Buz- 
zard ?" 

" There is a matter I have come upon, to 
the which I should like to have your wor- 
ship's countenance," began his companion 
with a famous hypocritical serious face. 

" Count upon it, Master Buzzard !" cried 
the justice. " Believe me, I would strain 
a point for you with great willingness, that 
would I, as I will show at any time there is 
good warrant for it*" 

" I am much bound to you, Sir Thomas," 
replied the other ; " then this is it. There is 
one John Shakspeare " 

"What, he of Stratford?" inquired the 
knight quickly. " A man of fair, round face, 
who married Arden's daughter. I have heard 
him well spoken of by divers of the burgesses 
as passing honest, and, at your instigation, 
Master Buzzard, I will countenance him 
against any man." 

" You have been hugely deceived in him, 
Sir Thomas," observed his guest. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



61 



* Marry, would ne seek to deceive a justice 
of peace !" exclaimed tlie other. " What 
monstrous villainy !" 

" I have heard him speak most abominable 
slander of your worship," continued Master 
Buzzard. 

" Oh, the horrid caitiff!" cried the offend- 
ed justice. " Nay, but 'tis actionable, Mas- 
ter Buzzard ; and I will have him cast in 
swinging damages. O' my life, never heard 
I so infamous a thing ! I will straightway 
issue my warrant for his apprehension. I 
will teach him to slander Sir Thomas Lucy, 
knight o' the shire and justice o' the peace, I 
warrant you ! 'Tis not fit such villains 
should live ; and methinks 'twould be ex- 
ceeding proper in the law could so heinous 
an offence be brought in hanging." 

" As I live, I am of your worship's opini- 
on !" said his guest. " But he is a very pes- 
tilent knave, this John Shakspeare, and one 
of no manner of honesty whatever, as I can 
presently prove ; for sometime since, at his 
urgent pressing, believing him to be sueh 
creditable person as your worship thought, I 
lent him a hundred crowns on his bond, the 
which he hath not paid to this day, putting 
me off with all sorts of paltry excuses con- 
cerning of what losses he had had ; but 
knowing, by certain intelligence, he was 
merely striving to get off payment, I have 
instructed Master Catchpole to proceed 
against him and seize what he hath for the 
payment of my just debt." 

" I warrant you," observed the knight, 
" never heard I of such thorough dishonesty. 
What, borrow a hundred crowns at his need, 
and at a proper time be not able to pay it 
back ! O' my life, 'tis clean villainy !" 

" Perchance I should not have been so 
rigorous with him, had I not heard him give 
your worship such iil words," added Master 
Buzzard ; " fori care not so much for losing 
of such a sum ; but I could not allow of one 
who slandered so noble a gentleman going 
unpunished." 

" By'r lady, Master Buzzard, I am greatly 
beholden to you !" exclainied the justice ; 
" but I will trounce him famously — ay, that 
will I ! — and keop his unruly tongue fromali 
such lewd behavior forever after." 

" Nay, if it please you, Sir Thomas, I 
"would he should not be attacked in this 
matter," said Master Buzzard. The burg- 
esses might take it ill of me, he being one 
of the corporation, and of some influence 
amongst them, were I to seem to press him 
too hard. So [ should take it kindly if you 
would make no stir in it ; but keep you your 
eye upon him, and if he should be found 
transgressing, as it is very like he will, 



then, if it so please you, I shall be well con- 
tent you punish him as your wisdom may 
think fittest." 

It is only necessary to add to what hath 
just been set down, that Master Buzzard 
stayed dinner with Sir Thomas Lucy, and 
was well entertained of him and his lady, 
ever laughing at the knight's jests and mai- 
velling at his incredible narrations, but 
never failing to say something now and 
then which should strengthen the other's 
misliking of John Shakspeare, which failed 
not of its purpose ; for the justice was so 
weak of conceit as to be easily enraged 
against any who seemed not to think of 
him so famously as was evident he thought 
of himself. 



CHAPTER VUL 

Tt is decreed : and we must yield to fate, 
Whose angry justice, though it threatens ruin, 
Contempt and poverty, is all but trial 
Of a weak woman's constancy in suffering. 

Ford. 

Tn felawship well could she laugh and carpe ; 
She was a worthy woman all hire live, 
Housbondes at the chirche dore had shemad five. 

Chaucer. 
I exact not from you 
A fortitude insensible of calamity, 
To which the saints themselves have bowed 

and shown 
They are made of flesh and blood ; all that 1 

challenge 
Is manly patience. 

Massingeb. 
Hold out now, 
And then thou art victorious. 

Ford. 

Two persons were standing in an empty 
chamber bare to the very boards. A pain- 
ful seriousness was on the features of each : 
but there was no doubting each strove to con- 
ceal from the other the exact state of their 
feelings. They spoke low ; their voices 
having that subdued sound which betokeneth 
great excitement of mind, with great efforts 
to keep it from other's knowledge. One, a 
man seeming to be of the middle age, and 
in the prime of manhood, leaned his elbow on 
the window sill, with his forehead resting on 
his palm ; the other, a woman of an admira- 
ble matronly appearance, had her arm 
around his waist, and her fair cheek resting 
upon his shoulder. These were John Shak- 
speare and his wife. They spoke only at 
intervals, in the manner described ; and, as 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



usual in all troubles, the woman appeared 
to be playing the part of the comforter. 

" Take it not to heart, John, I pray you," 
said she, as she seemed to press him closer 
to her side. " We shall do bravely anon. 
We must put up with these buffets as we 
best may ; and, for my own part, I can con- 
tent myself wondrous well, be my condition 
ever so humble." 

" I doubt it not, dame," replied her hus- 
band ; " but canst content thyself with bare 
lying, naked walls, and an empty larder ?" 

" Ay, dear heart !" answered she very 
readily ; " for a longer space than they are 
like to visit us. We may be considered as 
poor as any that live ; but whilst I have for 
my yoke-fellow a good husband, a tender 
father, and one so industriously disposed 
withal, as you have oft shown yourself to be, 
I know of no poverty that could trouble me 
a jot." 

" But the children, dame," observed John 
Shakspeare in a huskish sort of voice. 
"Alack ! Alack ! what shall become of 
them ?" 

" O they will do well enough, I warrant 
you !" replied his wife with a cheerfulness 
she was far from feeling. " They can en- 
dure some slight discomfort, or they are none 
of mine, more especially when they take 
heed of their loving father's brave exertions 
to keep up his heart and make head against 
this sudden adversity." . 

" I am bewildered what to set my hand 
to," said he, rising from his position with 
a countenance somewhat irresolute ; but 
when I look upon my stripped dwelling, 
and remember how delicately thou hast been 
brought up " 

" Tut, tut, dear heart !" exclaimed his 
good dame, taking one of his hands in hers, 
and gazing affectionately in his face ; " I 
should scorn myself could I not bear the ills 
that might visit my helpmate. Think not 
of me, 1 pray you, for there livethnot in the 
world one so hardy as am I in all such mat- 
ters." John Shakspeare shook his head 
mournfully as he looked in her pale face, 
as though he had his doubts she was as 
strong as she said. 

" I will essay all that a man can," said 
he at last, " in the express hope this change 
of fortune will do thee no hurt, for thou 
hast been an excellent good wife to me, 
dame ; and 'twould go to my heart were 
any evil to happen to thee." At this com- 
mendation she said never a word ; but all 
the woman was in her eyes presently, and 
she suddenly threw her arms around his 
neck, and laid her face on his bosom. 

" Woe's nre, what poor foolishness is 



this ?" cried she, rising from him a minute 
afte: with an endeavor to look more cheer- 
ful ; " but I am wonderful pleased you will 
try to be doing something, and I care not 
what it be, so that it keep sad thoughts from 
your head ; nay, I am assured of it, you 
shall live prosperously the rest of your days, 
put you forth all your strength now to bear 
these troubles." 

" That will I without fail, sweet heart," 
cried he. After a brief space he left the 
chamber. 

Dame Shakspeare when alone, felt the 
whole weight of her misfortune, for she 
had given such great keaps of comfort to 
her husband, she had not a bit of ever such 
smallness remaining for herself. She lean- 
ed out of the empty casement, but of the 
spring flowers blooming in the garden saw 
she nothing ; she beheld only her hapless 
partner and her poor innocent children 
lacking those comforts they had been used 
to, and she powerless as to helping them in 
their need. The wife and the mother was 
so moved at the picture she could not avoid 
drawing, as to feel a sort of choking, and 
such heaviness of heart, that at last she 
dropped her face upon her hands and there 
smothered her sobs. All at once she caught 
the sound of a very sweet singing, and 
listening with what attention she could, 
heard the following words. 

A COMFORTABLE CAROL. 

" Cheer thee, my heart ! Thy life shall have a 
crowning 
This poor appareling cannot beguile ; 
Phoebus himself hath worn as dark a frowning, 
And lo ! all heaven is radiant with his smile ! 
Bravely thy spirit bear, 
Far from each coward fear ; 
What though some trouble come, is all joy ban- 
ished 1 

Prithee a lesson read, 
In ev'ry shivering weed, 
That knows in winter's rage springs have not 
vanished. 
Pleasure is borri of thee, comfort is near thee, 
Glory thy boon shall be — Cheer thee, O cheer 
thee ! 

Cheer thee, my heart ! Heed not the present 

sorrow 
" Let future gladness flash in every thought ; 
Never a night so black but hath its morrow, 
Whose splendor laughs all gloominess to nought. 
Though thou shouldst feel the wound, 
'Tis but to plough the ground — 
Looks not the soil as barren in the furrow ? 
Yet o'er the sightless clods, 
Countless great plenty nods, 
When the rich harvest clothes the wide fieli 
through ! 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



03 



Pleasure is born of thee, comfort is near thee, 
Glory thy boon shall be — Cheer thee, cheer 
thee !" 

It was nurse Cicely singing to the chil- 
dren in an upper chamber, as was her wont. 
It had been noted, that however much giv- 
en to singing was she, she never sang any 
such songs as were familiar to her hearers ; 
but she would say when spoke to on the 
matter she had learned them in her youth, 
and knew not by whom they were writ. It 
was the marvel of many that they looked 
to be of a higher language than ordinary 
ballads, whereof the tunes were the delica- 
test sort ever heard. Dame Shakspeare 
felt exceeding comforted at hearing the 
foregoing verses, and rising from her lean- 
ing place, hastily brushed away a tear from 
her eyelids, as though it was some base 
rebel that would needs be in arms against 
her authority. As she did this she was 
suddenly aware of a great talking of voices 
in what had been the warehouse, and her 
chamber door being presently thrown open, 
she beheld the whole place thronged with 
her neighbors, mostly women and children, 
carrying spare tables and chairs, and other 
such conveniences as they thought she 
stood most in need of. 

" This way, neighbors, this way !" ex- 
claimed the merry Widow Pippins, who 
seemed to be the leader of the party. 

" Ha ! dame, how dost do ?" inquired she, 
as she put an old arm chair by the side of 
her. So the villains have not left thee so 
much as a rush for thy floor ? But mind it 
not, gossip, for they have given thee all the 
better cause for caring not a rush for the 
whole pack of them." Thereupon she had 
a hearty laugh, and then bustled herself 
about giving directions where to put things, 
which all did with great alacrity, that pres- 
ently there seemed some sort of comfort in 
the chamber, albeit though no two chairs 
were alike. Mistress Malmsey and Mis- 
tress Dowlas were each at the side of Dame 
Shakspeare, for she was more overpowered 
by the kindness of her neighbors than ever 
she had been at the great reverse she had 
just experienced ; and they two having got 
her seated, were pressing of her to take 
some wine the vintner's wife had brought 
with her, and were bestowing on her all 
sorts of friendly consolation. 

" Now get you gone, all of you, and let 
us see which hath the best pair of heels," 
said the widow, in her cheerfulest humor to 
the others. ** Mayhap if you search thor- 
oughly, you shall still find some odd thing 
or another serviceable to our good neighbor ; 
and methinks 'twould be infamous of any 



who have wherewithal to spare, to keep it 
from one who is in such need." 

" Ay, that would it," said David Hurdle, 
who had run from his work on the news of 
John Shakspeare's misfortune, with a heavy 
oak table nigh as much as he could carry. 

" Methinks I have a knife or two, and 
mayhap a spare trencher," observed Mother 
Flytrap. " But alack ! what a monstrous 
shame was it to have been so hard upon so 
sweet a woman. Odds codlings ! I could 
find it in my heart to do them a mischie. 
for't." 

" Use thy legs briskly, and thy tongue 
shall last the longer," exclaimed the Widow 
Pippins merrily. 

. " That will I, I warrant you !" replied 
the old woman, hobbling along with her 
stick at a rate she had not attempted for 
many a day. 

" As I live the world groweth more vil- 
lainous every hour !" cried Oliver Dumps, 
putting on one of his dolefullest faces. 
" What abominable uncivilness and horrible 
tyranny is" this — what shameful usage and 
intolerable cruelty !" 

" Fine words butter no parsnips, Master 
Constable," said the widow. " Hast brought 
any useful thing for our good neighbor ?" 

" Nay, I clean forgot," answered Oliver. 

" Speed thee, then, and give handsomely," 
exclaimed she. " What dost come here for, 
with thy melancholy visage like that of a 
frog in a long drought ? Get thee gone for 
a good dozen of trenchers, else if ever I draw 
thee a drop of my liquor again call me a 
horse. And, prithee," added the merry wo- 
man, as he was moving himself off, " strive 
if thou canst not find out a good store of 
wholesome victual to put in them ; and 
count on for brimming measure from me the 
rest of thy life." 

" How now sweetheart," cried she, when 
there were no others left with Dame Shak- 
speare save only herself, Mistress Malmsey, 
and Mistress Dowlas, " be not so downcast. 
By my patience, there is nought in this you 
should so much care for. Look at me, who 
have buried five husbands — seem I in any 
way woe-begone ? O' my fife, no ! Per- 
chance I should seem none the less satisfied 
had I buried a hundred, for there would still 
be plenty as good above ground, or I am 
hugely mistaken. Troth, care and I have 
never been bedfellows, that's a sure thing." 

" An' it please you, dame, I will take the 
boy William to our house till things are 
more settled than they now, are," observed 
the draper's wife. 

" And I will move my Tim 3thy to be * 



\ 



64 



THE YOUTH OF SIIAKSPEARE. 



mean for setting your good man on his legs 
again," said the other, as affectionately. 

" I heartily thank you," was all Dame 
Shakspeare could say in reply. 

"Prithee look a little more cheerful," 
cried the widow. " Smile a bit now — 
'twould do you wonderful good, I warrant ; 
and a famous burst of laughing would be 
worth any money to you." 

Their attention was, at this moment, at- 
tracted by some loud talking in the adjoin- 
ing chamber or warehouse, which proved to 
be Master Buzzard's man, Saul, conducting 
of himself with intolerable insolency towards 
John Shakspeare, evidently with a view of 
provoking him to some breach of the peace. 

" Humph !" exclaimed he carelessly beat- 
ing of his boot with an ashen stick he had 
with him, as he stared about the naked 
chamber with exceeding impudence, " me- 
thinks thy wits must needs take to wool- 
gathering, to help thee to a new stock, else 
must thy customers lack serving, for here is 
as goodly a show of nothing as ever I 
saw." 

" Get thee gone, fellow !" observed John 
Shakspeare, with that indifference an honest 
man ever feels at the insults of a low vil- 
lain. 

" Fellow !" cried Saul sharply, " who dost 
call fellow, I prithee ? I have a few pounds, 
at least, stored up, with a something in my 
purse to spend ; but thou art not worth a 

finch of salt with all thou hast, is more than 
can see any color of warrant for thinking. 
Marry, I marvel to hear beggars give their 
betters ill words." 

" Wilt get thee gone ?" cried the other 
in a louder key ; " what dost want here ? 
Say thy business, and be off." 

" Business, quotha !" exclaimed the man, 
with a sneering laugh, " O' my life, this be 
a rare place for business. What hast got to 
sell, John Shakspeare — spider's webs ? 
I'faith, 'tis like thou wilt drive a brave trade 
anon, provided thou canst keep up a fair de- 
mand for such merchandise." 

" O' my word, if thou dost not take thyself 
quietly out of my dwelling in a presently, I 
will turn thee out," said John Shakspeare, 
determinedly. 

" Ha, indeed," replied the fellow, twirling 
his stick about, and eyeing his companion 
superciliously from head to foot, " an' I be 
not hugely mistaken, 'twould take a some- 
what better man than thou art, to do any 
such thing." 

" Away, fellow ! thou art contemptible," 
exclaimed the other, making great efforts to 
withhold his anger ; " an' I were but half 
as vile a wretch as thou, I would take me 



a rope and hang myself without anotbei 
word." 

" How darest thou call names, thou piti- 
ful, beggarly wretch !" cried Saul, approach- 
ing his companion with a savage menacing 
look. " Dost think to play the high bailiff 
again ? 'Slife ! hear I any more of thy 
bouncing speech, I'll crack thy crown for 
thee." 

" Wouldst !" exclaimed John Shakspeare, 
seizing the fellow so suddenly by the collar 
of his jerkin, that he had no time for putting 
of his threat in execution. " Wouldst, 
caitiff!" continued he, shaking him in his 
strong grasp till he appeared to have shook 
all his breath away. Then drawing him 
close to his breast, he thrust his insulter 
from him with such force, that he sent him 
reeling to the other end of the chamber, 
saying, " Get thee gone for a villain !" 

As soon as the man got his footing he 
was for flying at the other in a horrible 
deadly rage, to do him some mischief, when 
he was stopped by the Widow Pippins 
Mistress Malmsey, and Mistress Dowlas, 
rushing in before him from out of the ad- 
joining chamber. 

" Away, thou scurvy rogue !" exclaimed 
the widow. 

" Get thee hence, thou pitiful rascal, or I 
will clout thy head off !" cried the vintner's 
wife, with no less earnestness. 

" By my troth, an' thou stayest here 
another minute, I'll be as good as hanging 
to thee, thou intolerable villain !" added 
Mistress Dowlas, in as great a rage as 
either. 

" Go to, thou art a drab !" said Saul, im- 
pudently, as he tried to push by them. 

" Am I a drab, fellow ?" exclaimed Mis- 
tress Malmsey, hitting of him a box on the 
ear with all the strength of her arm. 

" Dost call me drab, villain !" cried the 
draper's wife, giving him so sore a one on 
the other side of his head that it nearly 
turned him round. 

" I'll drab thee !" said the widow, lifting 
up her foot the next moment, and giving 
him a kick behind of such force it sent him 
some paces ; and the three women followed 
him up with such vigor, that after standing 
a moment, quite bewildered with the quick- 
ness and fierceness of their blows, the fel- 
low was fain to take to his heels ; but not 
before the widow had given him a parting 
benediction with her foot, in the use of 
which she showed a marvellous cleverness, 
that gave him a good start to begin with. 

" As I live that was well done of us !" 
exclaimed the merry widow, as soon aa 
Saul had disappeared, and laughing with 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



es 



her usual free-heartedness ; " never knew 
I so goodly a foot-ball, or ever played so 
famous a game. Indeed, 'twas exquisite 
sport. I would not have missed my share 
in it for another husband. O' my life, an' 
he rindeth himself comfortable sitting for 
the next month, he must be rarely fashioned. 
He must needs forswear chairs, and rest as 
gingerly on a stool as would a cow upon 
broken bottles. I'faith, 'twas rare sport !" 

The other two appeared to be nearly as 
well amused, as they returned to Dame 
Shakspeare, who had come as far as the 
door in some alarm, when her neighbors 
burst into the warehouse ; but there were 
two others, who had observed Saul's inso- 
lence from the kitchen, and these were 
Maud and Humphrey, and were quite as 
much moved at it as any there. The former 
had been crying ever since the seizure, and 
the other had been endeavoring, with a vast 
show of awkward affectionateness, to give 
her some comfort. 

" Humphrey!" cried she, suddenly jump- 
ing up from the ground where she had been 
sitting, at hearing of her master so insulted, 
and gazing on her companion with a very 
monstrous earnestness ; " An' thou dost not 
go and cudgel that knave within an inch 
of his life, I'll forswear thy company. Ay," 
added she with a most moving emphasis ; 
" though I die a maid for't !" 

" ^y goles, thou shall never do so horrid 
a thing!" exclaimed Humphrey, hastily 
catching hold of a cudgel that had often 
done good service on himself, and darting 
out at the back door as Saul made his exit 
at the front. Now Humphrey was not 
much given to valor: indeed, to speak the 
exact truth, he could be terrible fearful 
upon occasions ; but what will not love do ? 
All at once Humphrey felt himself a hero ; 
and to save his Maud from so unnatural a 
catastrophe as she had threatened, he would 
that moment have dared any danger, had 
it been ever so great. As he proceeded 
quickly along, be threw out his arms, jerked 
up his head, expanded his chest, and flour- 
ished his cudgel, with the air of a con- 
queror. No one knew Humphrey. I doubt 
hugely Humphrey knew himself, he was so 
changed. 

Saul left John Shakspeare's house in a 
terrible bad humor, as may be supposed. 
His head seemed to spin like a parish top, 

and as for but methinks the courteous 

reader needeth no retrospective allusions. 
Suffice it to say he was in a tearing pas- 
sion, and went his way monstrous chap- 
fallen, muttering all sorts of imprecations, 
with his eyes on the ground as though in- 



tent on studying every pebble he trod on. 
All at once some one ran against him with 
such force as nearly to send him off his 
legs. 

" A murrain on thee ! dost wan*, thy fool's 
head broke ?" shouted Saul. 

" Ay, marry, and why not, if thou canst 
do it!" replied Humphrey in a big voice 
that almost frightened himself. " Go and 
bite thy thumb at a stone wall, and be 
hanged to thee ! My head be as good a 
fool's head as thine, I warrant ; and I care 
not who knows it. I tell thee I take thee 
to be a scurvy villain; so have it in thy 
teeth thou coal-carrying knave!" 

" Bravely said, Humphrey !" cried a 
neighbor, astonished at such a display in 
one so little noted for valor. 

" Well done, my heart of oak !" ex- 
claimed another, patting him on the back 
with the same commending spirit. 

" Why, thou pitiful worsted knave !" 
bawled out Master Buzzard's man, recover- 
ing from his surprise at being so abused of 
so mean a person. " 'Slife ! an' do I not 
beat thee to shavings, I am a Jew." 

'•' A ring, my masters — a ring !" bawled 
out another ; and very speedily there was a 
circle of some twenty men and boys, form- 
ed round the two combatants. Never were 
two persons so badly matched. Saul was 
the best cudgel-player in the whole country; 
but all Humphrey's knowledge of it came 
of the blows he had had of his master, and 
not without deserving it ; yet was Humphrey 
the favorite of the spectators beyond ques- 
tion, all of whom held the other in huge 
dislike, for very efficient causes, and Hum- 
phrey was so encouraged and commended 
of them, that although his feelings were 
somewhat of a dubious sort, for all the show 
he made, it kept up his valor famously. 
Presently the two began playing of their 
weapons very prettily ; but Humphrey was 
in so monstrous an eagerness to pay his 
antagonist, he did nothing but strike away 
as hard as he could, in a manner that quite 
confused the practised cudgel-player. Saul 
was in a horrible passion, which in con- 
junction with other things, mayhap might 
have made his skill avail him so little ; but 
when he found his head broke, and heard 
the shouts of triumph of those around him, 
he became like a mad beast, and struck out 
wherever he could at mere random. Certes 
Humphrey got no lack of thumps ; but his 
head looked to be to the hardness of a bullet, 
and gave no sign of being touched, while 
Saul could scarce see out of his eyes for 
the blood running from his broken head. 

As it was now a mere trial of endurance, 



\ 



66 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



it was easy to see who would get the hest 
of it, for Saul might have cudgelled a post 
with as much sign of success as he had 
with his present antagonist; and nothing 
could exceed the gratification of all present 
at the heartiness with which John Shaks- 
peare's man gave it to the other. In short, 
Saul got such a drubbing as he had never 
had since he was born ; and at last, when 
his strength was nearly exhausted, a sharp 
blow sent him to the ground like a stone. 
Then rose a shout of triumph such as 
Stratford had rarely heard, and Humphrey 
mounted on the shoulders of two butcher's 
apprentices, and followed by half the town 
hurraing him as he went — they were in 
such delight he had behaved himself so 
valorously, and punished as he deserved so 
notorious a knave — was carried like a hero 
to his master's dwelling. 

"Maud !" cried the victor, as he entered 
the back door, with his heart swelling with 
exultation. 

" Well, Humphrey," said she. 

" I have given that varlet his deserts." 

" Hast ?" added she, approaching him 
closely, and looking earnestly into his face. 

" By goles, I do think I have gone as 
nigh killing the knave as was possible." 

" Hast ?" repeated she with a smile break- 
ing over her chubby cheeks. " Then here's 
at thee !" Thereupon she suddenly seized 
Humphrey by his two ears with her huge 
fists, and gave him as hearty a buss as ever 
man received of woman since the world 
commenced. 



Mosca. 
Volpone. 
Mosca. 
Implies it. 



CHAPTER IX. 

There's nought impossible. 

Yes, to be learned, Mosca. 
no ; rich 

Hood an ass with reverend purple, 
So you can hide his two ambitious ears, 
And he shall pass for a cathedrel doctor. 

Ben Jonson. 
Of an old English gentleman who had an old 

estate, 
And kept up his old mansion at a bountiful 

rate, 
With an old porter to relieve the poor at his 

gate, 
Like the Queen's old courtier, and a courtier 
of the Queen's. Old Ballad. 

It cannot be supposed William Shaks- 
peare was well off in his schooling under so 
ill a master as Stripes, who, though he did 
not treat him uncivilly, in token of such 



welcome gifts as his mother ofttimwi 
brought, was of too ignorant pedantic a 
nature to have that heed which a young 
scholar of any promise requireth : neverthe- 
less William took to his book very kindly 
to the wouderful admiration of Dame Shaks* 
peare and her gossips, and in especial of 
Nurse Cicely, which never failed to bring 
forth notable prophecies of his future great- 
ness from her, whereof more than one per- 
son entertained them as exceeding credible. 
There was no wake, or lamb-ale, or other 
festival in the neighborhood the boy was not 
invited to with his mother, at which he was 
continually called upon to repeat such 
verses he had learned of his mother, or sing 
such ballads as his nurse had made him 
familiar with; and the goodly manner he 
would perform what was required, so won 
upon the hearts of the spectators, that 
praises out of all number, and other things 
more substantial in great plenty, were the 
sure consequences. As soon as he had 
learned to read, wonderful was the diligence 
with which he perused all manner of books 
— albeit he quickly exhausted the poor stock 
that could be had for his reading, for these 
merely consisted of a few volumes, chiefly 
poems of Dame Shakspeare's, and one or 
two here and there of some neighbor. Cer- 
tes, no great matter of knowledge was to 
be gained of such books; but they served 
to excite the young mind, and keep it in a 
restless yearning for more delectable food ; 
and therefore were not entirely unprofitable. 
It is not to be imagined that a child so 
disposed took no delight in the proper pas- 
times of his age ; for the entire contrary is 
nighest to the truth. Among all his school- 
fellows, who entered into any sport with 
such absolute zest as Will Shakspeare? 
He was the wildest of any. His free spirit 
made such play among them as soon gained 
for him the liking of the whole school. He 
grew up at last to be the chief leader in 
their games — the captain of their exploits, 
and the very heart and principal of all their 
revels. If Will was not of their company, 
doubtless were they as much at a loss as a 
hive of bees without their queen ; but when 
they were heard as merry as crickets by a 
winter's hearth, calling lustily to each other, 
crowding here and running there, sending 
the football bounding along the grass, or 
leaping over each other's backs as though 
they had wings, of a surety he was to be 
found amongst the very foremost. But it 
should be borne in mind that there were 
times, and many times too, when the day 
was in its freshest glory, and every one of 
his companions were enjoying themselves 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



67 



to his heait's content, lie would be in some 
out of the way corner, half sitting half re- 
clining on the floor, leaning deeply studious 
over some old volume he had provided him- 
self with ; and the merry shoutings close at 
hand, or the pressing entreaties of those he 
most liked, had never power to draw him 
thence till he had gone through it every 
page. 

More than once too, when they were out 
together a maying, or nutting in the woods, 
he would stray from the rest, perchance led 
away by the sweet singing of the birds, or 
the delicate beauty of the blossoms ; and in 
some shady place would sit him down to 
rest, conning of a book the whilst, he had 
carried under his jerkin, till somehow or 
another he would fall asleep, — and O the 
exquisite pleasant dreams he had at that 
time ! At the end he would suddenly start 
up, rubbing of his eyes and looking in every 
place for the great multitude of the fairy 
folk, who a moment since in their delicate 
finery seemed to be dancing so bravely be- 
fore him, and singing to him such admirable 
choice ditties, and doing him all manner of 
delectable courtesies ; but finding no sign 
of such searched he ever so, he would be in 
huge disappointment, till the shouting of 
his fellows woke him from his strange be- 
wilderment ; and he would then make what 
haste he could to join his company. 

Of his disposition, it is not too much to 
say it savored of as much sweetness as 
ever lay in so little a compass. There was 
no aptness to sudden quarrel with him — no 
giving of ill words — no beating of lesser 
boys than himself — no tendency to mere 
rude mischief ; neither selfishness, nor 
covetousness, nor any unmannerly quality 
whatsoever, such as are frequently in other 
boys ; but he would give freely of what he 
had, and assist those in their tasks who were 
backward, and very cheerfully do any civil 
thing for another that was in his compass, 
and could not bear to see any cruelty, or 
unkind treatment of any sort let it be among 
big or little. From this it will readily be 
conceived, that for his master he had but 
small affection, even though Stripes used 
him with more civil ness than was his wont 
to others. This seeming partiality, how- 
ever, lasted only as long as Dame Shaks- 
peare's gifts ; for when the family grew to 
be too poorly off to send him any, the 
schoolmaster showed his savage humor to 
him as much as to the rest. 

At the complete poverty of his father by 
Master Buzzard's ruthless proceedings, it 
was thought William would be taken alto- 
gether from school to assist his parents in 



such things as he could, for he was now 
grown to be of some bigness, and John 
Shakspeare had not withal to keep either 
Maud or Humphrey — who straightway 
made themselves of the pale of matrimony 
— and was striving as he best might to do 
a little trade as a glover, whereof his means, 
with his neighbors assistance, was only 
enough to accomplish ; but it was resolved 
by the two alderman's wives, who were the 
prime movers of all things in his behalf, 
that it would be best, as he was getting so 
forward, William should keep school hours, 
and assist his father at other times ; and in 
consequence, he continued to receive such 
instructions as Stripes could give in read- 
ing and writing, the science of simple arith- 
metic, and the study of the Latin grammar, 
for some time longer, wherein he got to be 
the very head of the school, despite of hav- 
ing so unworthy a teacher, and of the 
monstrous negligence and wanton insolency 
with which he was treated. 

Now this fellow of a schoolmaster was in 
the habit of using his boy Dickon, worse 
than any turnspit dog might be treated by a 
brutal scullion. What his wages were has 
never been known ; and indeed, save in the 
way of blows, he had never had anything of 
the sort. He got such little victual, that it 
was supposed of some he would long since 
have taken to eating of himself, only he 
knew not where to find a mouthful. Truly 
flesh and blood could not stand such usage ; 
indeed it appeared as though they had long 
had nought to do with the business, leaving 
skin and bone to manage everything between 
them. Dickon was reduced to such a strait, 
that if he caught sight of a eur looking for 
bones, he would take to his heels presently, 
with the full conviction the animal would 
make a grab at him an' he got in his way. 
In him, however, such leanness was but the 
natural result of poor living ; but his master, 
though he eat and drank greedily whatever 
he could lay his hand on, looked not a jot 
more full of flesh than ordinary. Indeed, 
he starved both his boy and his cat, eating 
from them their share of victual, yet seemed 
to carry nigh upon as hungry a look wtih him 
as either. His tyrannical humor he often' 
enough showed upon his scholars, but this 
was nothing to be compared with the sav- 
ageness with which he was ever falling 
upon poor Dickon for any trifling faults; 
and it was his custom, when he fancied 
there was anything amiss in the poor boy'a 
behavior, to drag him into the school-room, 
to be horsed by some of the biggest of his 
scholars; and then he would lay on him 
with a great rod with such fierceness as was 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



horrible to see, caring not a jot for his cries, 
or the entreaties of the whole school he 
should be let go. 

These exhibitions of his master's cruelty 
were intolerable to William Shakspeare, 
and many of his schoolfellows ; so one day, 
after such a sight, he got several of them 
together he had confidence in, and they be- 
ing moved with wrath and indignation, re- 
solved among themselves they would allow 
of it no longer, no matter what might follow ; 
and the first class, which were the chiefest 
for strength, entered into a bond of mutual 
protection. Others of the greatest spirit 
were drawn into the confederacy, and in a 
little time the whole school was in a ferment 
upon the matter. The very smallest of tho 
lot was seen to double up his little fist, with 
a look of vengeance that spoke volumes of 
meaning. All things, however, were left to 
the management of Will Shakspeare, and 
every one vowed to stand by him, though 
they were whacked to ribbons. The secret 
was well kept. Stripes had not the slight- 
est knowledge of any such feeling against 
him, and the next day rushed into the school- 
room, hauling in Dickon by the ear, who 
was making of a pitiful lamentation, and 
cutting him mercilessly by the way. 

" Will Shakspeare !" shouted the school- 
master; "horse me this villain straight." 
The boy moved not an inch. 

" Will Shakspeare, I say !" thundered 
Stripes, with increased rage ; " horse me 
this caitiff, I tell thee." Still his scholar 
kept the same unmovedness, and every one 
appeared studying of their tasks with more 
than ordinary diligence, nevertheless their 
little hearts were a beating famously. 

" Why, thou villain, what dost mean by 
this ?" exclaimed the pedagogue, furiously, 
letting go his hold of Dickon, and catching 
up his cane. " I'll make thee hear, I war- 
rant." In the twinkling of an eye every 
boy was out of his form. 

'* Now, Tom Green !" cried one. 

" Now, Jack Hemings !" shouted another. 

" At him, Dick Burbage !" exclaimed a 
third. 

" On him, Harry Condell !" bawled a 
fourth ; "and in an instant, there was a rush 
upon the astonished schoolmaster from all 
parts of the school. 

" Ha ! dost rebel ?" screamed he, making 
furious efforts to cut them with his cane, 
with his cadaverous visage livid with pas- 
sion. " 'Slight, I'll make thee rue it !" 

But for all his terrible efforts he was 
speedily overpowered. The boys came upon 
him with all the spirit of ants disturbed in 
their nest ; some clung to a leg, others to 



an arm. They jumped upon his neck, and 
hung upon his jerkin in such numbers, that 
he could do nought in the world, but threat- 
en them with the horriblest imprecations. 
At this stage of the proceedings, Dickon, 
who had regarded this sudden movement 
out of his wits with sheer amazement, was 
called to hold his back to take his master 
on ; and though at first he showed some 
sign of unwillingness, he was soon forced 
by the conspirators to do as they bade him. 

"I'll have thee hanged, villains!" bawled 
the pedagogue, as he was being hoisted by 
the strongest of his scholars upon the back 
of the poor boy he had used so inhumanly, 
malgre all his strugglings and turnings. "I 1 il 
lash the skin off thy pestilent bones. I'll 
scourge every one of thee to death. Let 
me go, thou vile wretches !" 

<; Hold on, Dickon !" cried some. 

" Keep him fast, my masters !" exclaimed 
others, and shouts of encouragement arose 
from all. Dickon did hold fast, doubtless in 
some slight pleasure, for all his seeming un- 
willingness, and he had no lack of helpers 
in his office ; so that Stripes was very 
speedily prepared for that punishment he 
had with so little discretion inflicted upon 
others. As soon as he" began to be aware 
of what was intended for him, he was like 
one in a phrenzy. Mad with fear, rage, and 
indignation, he redoubled his threats and his 
struggles, but all to small profit : for, whilst 
he was held down as firm as in a vice by 
some, others, one after another, laid into him 
with all their might, till he roared for mercy. 
These, then, taking the places of his holders, 
divers in their turn assisted in the tyrant's 
punishment, till not one of the whole school 
but had repaid him with interest the unde- 
served blows he had received at his hands. 
To describe the joy with which all this was 
done by the scholars, their uproarious shouts 
and cheers, or the horrible bad humor of 
their master, is clean out of the question. I 
doubt not it will be imagined of many. The 
end was, at a signal he was. dropped on the 
floor, so completely tamed of his tyrannical 
humors, he would not have struck at a 
mouse,— where he was left to put himself 
to rights as he might, — and then the whole 
school took their leaves of him very orderly. 

The next day they came to the school as 
usual, but all in a body ; the bigger boys 
first, and the little ones coming after, and 
every one went to his place, and took to his 
studies, as if nothing had happened out of 
the ordinary. Doubtless, they had come to 
the resoluon to have at him again, showed 
he any more of his insufferable cruelties ; 
but there was small need of any such thing, 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



for there never was so altered a man seen 
as was Stripes, the schoolmaster, fie heard 
them their lessons with a sort of suavity 
that was marvellous beyond all things — 
praising of every one as though he had got 
for his scholars such prodigies of genius as 
could not be met with elsewhece — and 
taking no more thought of canes and rods, 
than if such things had never been in his 
experience. As for Dickon, he showed his 
master a fair pair of heels directly he had 
him off his back, and was shortly after taken 
into the service of an honest yeoman, father 
to one of the scholars. 

It so happened, once on a time, as Wil- 
liam Shakspeare and his chief companions 
were strolling together, they came upon the 
town crier giving note to the inhabitants, 
that my Lord of Leicester's players being 
in the town, would perform a play at a cer- 
tain hour, to which the citizens were in- 
vited at a small charge. This put some of 
them in a monstrous desire to behold so 
goodly an entertainment — particularly Wil- 
liam Shakspeare, who had beheld nought of 
the kind in all his life : but others, his eld- 
ers, had seen plays more than once, and they 
gave him such moving accounts of what ex- 
quisite pleasant pastime was to be found in 
them, that he did nothing but wish he could 
get to a sight of such. Unluckily, he had 
no money of any kind, and his father's ne- 
cessities were so great he knew none could 
be spared him. What to do he knew not ; 
for though he could get standing room for a 
penny, no sign of a penny could he see 
anywhere. He knew that divers of his 
schoolfellows were intent upon going, and 
he would have been glad enough to have 
joined them, but he saw no hope of the kind, 
by reason of wanting the necessary price of 
admission. It however did so turn out, that 
the father of one of the boys was an espe- 
cial acquaintance of the head of the players, 
by which means Richard Burbage not only 
got to see the play for nothing, but moved 
his father to allow of his schoolfellow, Will 
Shakspeare, having the like permission ; 
which, to the latter's extreme comfort was 
granted. 

The players gave their entertainment in 
the inn yard of the Widow Pippins, on a 
raised platform in front of the gallery. They 
were not troubled with scenery, and made 
no particular display of a wardrobe, but the 
merry interlude, called " Gammer Gurton's 
Needle," a huge favorite at that time, which 
was then and there played by them, required 
little such accompaniment. The spectators, 
at least the greater number, stood in the 
yard; but those who chose to pay more, 



were accommodated with seats at the gal- 
lery and casements. William Shakspeare, 
by going early with his fellows, got a front 
place, and waited, in a marvellous eagerness, 
to see the interlude. Presently there was a 
movement made by his neighbors, which 
caused him to turn round like the rest, and 
he saw it was occasioned by the entrance 
into the gallery of Sir Thomas Lucy, his 
lady, and his son, who took the best places ; 
elsewhere was seen Mistress Malmsey and 
Mistress Dowlas, in their choicest finery, 
pointing out their acquaintances to each 
other ; and either up or down, half the good 
folks of Stratford might have been recog- 
nized, intent upon nothing so much as see- 
ing the play. 

At last the curtain was moved, and a be- 
ginning was made of the play by the ap- 
pearance of Hodge and Deacon. The piti- 
ful manner in which the one complains to 
the other of the bad state of his lower gar- 
ment, and the right doleful way of his com- 
panion's condolences on the matter, were 
received by the audience with loud roars of 
laughter. Then, when Deacon acquaints 
Hodge of Gammer Gurton and her maid 
Tib having been by the ears together, mak- 
ing of the House a perfect Bedlam, and the 
other protests he was monstrous afraid some- 
thing serious would happen, having taken 
note of the awful manner in which Tom 
Tankard's cow frisked her tail, there was no 
less mirthfulness. Upon Hodge proceeding 
homeward and meeting with Tib, and hear- 
ing that all this turmoil had been occasioned 
by the Gammer losing of her needle ; when, 
upon spying of Gib, the cat, up to the ears 
in her milk-bowl, she let fall the breeches 
she was clouting with all diligence, the 
humor of the dialogue seemed equally well 
relished. But when it came to Gammer 
Gurton's terrible to do because of her loss, 
her monstrous anxiousness to recover it, 
her suspicions of the honesty of her neigh- 
bors, her intrigues and quarrels with them, 
and the interference of no less a person than 
the parson of the parish, Dr. Rat, to make 
peace again, there was a choice roaring I 
warrant you ; and this was only exceeded 
when Hodge, upon sitting of himself down, 
discovered the lost needle, to his great smart, 
in consequence of its having been left stick- 
ing in his rent garment. 

I doubt much whether the finest play 
ever writ, was so well relished of an audi- 
ence as was this rude coarse interlude, by 
the simple burgesses of Stratford. Even Sir 
Thomas Lucy laughed as though he would 
never have done. As for William Shaks*. 
peare, it made such impression on hira, never 



70 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



having- se&n anything of the sort, that the 
next day, and very often after, he was to be 
seen, with his companions, Burbage, Green, 
Condell, and Hemings, making players of 
themselves in an out-of-the-way corner of 
the town, essaying to play that very inter- 
lude, by one taking one character and the 
rest others ; and it was said by some who 
saw them at it, that the seeing these boys 
aping the players out of their own heads as 
they did, was nigh upon as rare a sight as 
seeing the players themselves. All these 
five were ever at it ; and the playing of Gam- 
mer Gurton's Needle took the place of all 
other sports whatsoever. Suffice it to say, 
that the Earl of Leicester's company got 
such reception, they repeated their visits fre- 
quently ; and young Burbage's father having 
shown some talent as a player, they took him 
to be of their company. 

On one occasion, William Shakspeare 
was sent with some gloves to a certain Sir 
Marmaduke de Largesse, living at Wilne- 
cott, at an excellent old mansion there, who 
delighted in keeping up the country sports 
and festivities, and was noted for miles round, 
what extreme pleasure he took in anything 
that smacked of antiquity. His hospitality 
was unbounded, and his table was ever loaded 
with the choicest of good victual, to which 
all might seat themselves according to their 
quality ; and what was left was given to the 
poor by the porter at the gate. No one ever 
came there hungry that did not leave with 
as much as he liked to eat and drink, under 
his belt; and, if it was needed, a something 
in his purse to carry him along. In his 
cooking he was more careful there should 
be a good plenty of wholesome viands, than 
that any show of extreme niceness should 
be visible in the dishes ; and as for what he 
gave to' drink, it was chiefly honest ale, of 
his own brewing, of such fine flavor and 
strength as was not to be matched, go where 
you would. 

Having passed through an avenue of lofty 
trees, which led up to the house, admiring, 
as he approached it, its fair appearance and 
antique character, on making known his er- 
rand he was ushered by a jolly-looking but- 
ler into a spacious stone-floored chamber, 
lighted with transome windows, the walls of 
which were garnished with a prodigal as- 
sortment of corslets and helmets arranged 
in rows, with coats of mail, military jerkins 
or shirts of leather, halberts, bucklers, pikes, 
bills, crossbows, and all manner of the like 
weapons and defences. An oak table that 
went the whole length of the chamber, was 
covered with smoking viands, brimming 
black jacks, and full trenchers. The upper 



and lower messes being divided by a huge 
saltcellar, — all around was a busy company 
of friends and retainers, doing honor to the 
feast : and at the head of the table in a fa- 
mous tall chair, sat a ruddy, stout, pleasant- 
faced gentleman, with hair and beard white 
and plentiful ; a full ruff such as might have 
been in fashion some score of years since, 
and a serviceable doublet, with trunks and 
hose of a sober color. The hilt of his ra- 
pier came up to his breast, but he held it as 
carefully as if it had been an old friend, and 
I doubt not would sooner have gone without 
his napkin at his meals, than without so ap- 
proved a companion. He kept discoursing 
cheerfully with those nighest him, ever and 
anon glancing his eyes round to see that the 
carver did his duty, and that all were well 
served. This was Sir Marmaduke de Lar- 
gesse. 

William Shakspeare had not entered the 
hall many minutes ero» he was spied by the 
old knight, who in a kind voice bade him 
come near and state his business. 

"Gloves, eh!" exclaimed he pleasantly, 
upon hearing of his errand. " Hie then to 
a seat at the table — get thee a good meal 
and a fair draught — after that if thou art in 
the humor come to me and I will attend thy 
business with all proper diligence." 

There was such sweetness in the beha- 
vior of this old gentleman, that it was im- 
possible for the boy hesitating to do what he 
was desired, even had he cared not to be of 
the feast, so he went with due deference 
below the salt, where place was cheerfully 
made for him, and every one of his neigh- 
bors commenced pressing of him to this and 
the other tempting dish with such cordiality, 
as soon put him quite at home with them. 
A trencher full of excellent fare, he quickly 
found smoking at his hand so enticingly, 
that he was fain to set to with exceeding 
good will, and it was a truly pleasant part of 
the entertainment to note the anxiousness of 
his neighbors, that he should have what he 
liked best, and as much of it as he could 
fancy. In all honesty he made a famous 
meal, and after drinking sparingly of the 
ale, he was ready to attend to his errand. 
Presently a most thankful grace was said 
by the chaplain, and in a few minutes thr 
tables were cleared, and all had gone their 
several ways, save only some guests who 
kept their places, and continued conversing 
with their bountiful kind entertainer. Wil- 
liam Shakspeare did *iot move, for he was 
waiting for some sign from the knight of his 
being at leisure. 

" Prithee let me hear that ballad of Wil- 
liam the Conqueror, thou wert speaking of,, 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



71 



Master Peregrine," said Sir Marmaduke to 
a curious sort of pantaloon-looking person, 
wearing a huge pair of spectacles, mounted 
on his peaked nose. 

" O' my life, I doubt hugely I can say but 
a verse or two," replied Master Peregrine, 
in a thin small voice. I heard it when I was 
a boy, and never since, nor have I met it in 
print anywhere, though I have searched 
wherever there was likelihood of its being 
to be found. Indeed I would give something 
to know it thoroughly, for I doubt not 'tis 
exceeding ancient, and one of the very rarest 
ballads that ever were made." 

" Let us hear what of it is in your re- 
membrance, 1 pray you," exclaimed the 
chaplain, who was one with a venerable 
worthy aspect, and was then employed in 
brewing a cup of sack for the old knight 
and his guests, in the which he was esteemed 
famous. 

" Well, said, Sir Johan," said a young 
gallant, a near kinsman to Sir Marmaduke. 
" I love an old ballad as well as any." 

" Thou lovest a pretty woman better of 
the two, Sir Valentine, I'll warrant," cried a 
companion merrily. 

" That doth he Sir Reginald, I'll be sworn, 
or he is none of my blood," replied the old 
knight in the same humor. 

" Well, I care not to deny the impeach- 
ment," answered his kinsman with a smile. 
" Doubtless I can con either upon occasion, 
and get them by heart too if they be wor- 
thy." 

" Marry, and very properly," cried Sir 
Marmaduke, and then with a famous arch 
look added, " I doubt though you would like 
to have your pretty woman as old as your 
ballad, — eh, nephew ?" 

" No, by St. Jeronimo !" exclaimed Sir 
Valentine with such emphasis, it raised a 
laugh all round. 

" Well, give me an old ballad for my 
money," cried Master Peregrine with a mar- 
vellous complacency. "Methinks there is 
nothing like the delicate pleasure it afford- 
eth, if so be you stick it on the wall with 
some of its fellows, and go to the perusal of 
it when you have a mind." 

" There the ballad hath it hollow," obser- 
ved Sir Johan gravely, yet with a twinkle in 
his eye that savored of some humor. " Being 
of the church, perchance I am not the fittest 
to speak on so light a matter, but in all my 
philosophy, I know not of ever a pretty 
woman who allowed herself to be stuck on 
the wall with her fellows, were it even for a 
eingle moment." This sally also occasioned 
great laughing, after which Master Pere- 
grine was pressed for his ballad. 
5 



" It is of some length," said he ; " and if I 
remember me right, is writ in three separate 
fyttes or divisions." 

Then each of the company listened with 
courteous attention, Master Peregrine com- 
menced repeating of the verses he had 
spoken of. 

" I regret my memory faileth me in the 
rest of the verses, for I doubt not they would 
be found well worthy of a hearing," said the 
antiquary, suddenly coming to a halt. 

" Think a while — mayhap they shall return 
to your remembrance," said the chaplain. 

" Ay, do, Master Peregrine ; for I should 
be loath to lose any part of so goodly a bal- 
lad," added the old knight, who, with the rest, 
appeared to take infinite interest in it. 

" Nay, as I live, I know not a verse more," 
replied the other, seemingly in some vexa- 
tion when he found his thinking was to no 
profit. " Indeed, I should be heartily glad 
could I meet with the other parts, for they 
are of a very singular curiousness." 

" I'faith, I should be well pleased myself 
to hear the rest on't," remarked Sir Marma- 
duke, and his guests spoke much to the same 
purpose. 

" An' it please your worship, methinks I 
can give you every line of it," said young 
William Shakspeare, who had fidgetted 
about sometime without daring to speak. 

" Ha, Gloves ! art there ?" exclaimed the 
old knight, merrily ; " in very truth I knew 
not of thy presence. Come hither, I prithee." 

" Dost indeed know ought of it, young 
sir ?" inquired Master Peregrine, looking at 
the boy earnestly through his spectacles, as 
he approached him. 

" Every word, an' it please you," replied 
William. 

" Let us hear of it then, and quickly," 
cried Sir Marmaduke, putting his hand 
kindly on the boy's head. William Shaks- 
peare saw all eyes were fixed upon him ; 
yet there was a friendliness in every aspect 
which gave him nought to fear. Standing 
where he was, with a graceful carriage of 
himself, and a wonderful pleasant delivery, 
he presently went on with the verses. 

" Bravely spoken !" exclaimed the old 
knight, who had observed and listened to the 
boy manifestly with a more than ordinary 
satisfaction in his benevolent aspect. " Never 
heard I aught more properly delivered." 

" Nor I, by'r Lady," said Master Pere- 
grine, in a similar excellent humor. " Where 
didst learn this exquisite ballad, young sir V* 

" An' it please you, my mother taught it 
me," replied William Shakspeare. 

" Hast any more such in thy memory 1* 
inquired the other. 



72 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



* A score at least, an' it please you," an- 
swered the boy ; " most moving ones of the 
doings of valiant knights ; and sundry of a 
delicater sort, concerning of the love of fair 
ladies ; besides which I have store of fairy 
roundelays, that I learned of Nurse Cicely, 
which smack most sweetly of the dainty 
blossoms." 

" O' my life, thou art a treasure !" ex- 
claimed Master Peregrine, in a most pleased 
astonishment. 

" Stick him against the wall, I prithee !" 
cried Sir Reginald merrily. 

" Marry, methinks he is a wall of himself, 
or at least as good as one that is ever so well 
covered with ballads," remarked Sir Valen- 
tine ; " you could not have fallen into more 
choice company, Master Antiquarian." 

" So thou art John Shakspeare's son, of 
Stratford," said Sir Marmaduke kindly to 
him, after he had made the boy say some- 
thing of who he was ; " we must be of better 
acquaintance. Come thou here as often as 
it pleaseth thee ; and if thou art for books, 
I have some thou wouldst be glad to be rea- 
ding of, I make no manner of doubt. I tell 
you what, my masters," added he, turning to 
his guests, " I have a pleasant device in. my 
head, which perchance may be exceedingly 
profitable to us all ; and it is no other than 
to take this good boy with us to Kenilworth, 
to see the queen's highness, and he shall en- 
tertain us on the road with some of those 
rare ballads he hath spoken of." 

This suggestion was heartily received by 
the company, and after being well commen- 
ded, and received bountiful tokens of good 
Will from all, William Shakspeare returned 
home, bearing a message to his father to the 
effect just alluded to. 



CHAPTER X. 

See, she comes : 

How sweet her innocence appears ; more like 

To Heaven itself, than any sacrifice 

That can be offered to it. 

Massinger. 
I'll go hunt the badger by owl-light : 
'Tis a deed of, darkness. 

Webster. 

. The next morning early there was a won- 
derful stir amongst the neighbors at noting 
a brave cavalcade enter Henry Street, and 
stop at .John Shakspeare's door, and pre- 
sently there came out the boy William, 
whom lus mother had . carefully dressed in 
his best apparel, grieving. in her heart she 



had no better to give him, and by his father 
was set upon an ambling palfrey, that ap- 
peared to have been brought for him. All 
of his acquaintance were grouped about, 
marvelling famously to see Will Shakspeare 
riding away in the midst of persons of wor- 
ship with as great an air with him as he 
were a lord's son. They could scarce believe 
their eyes ; but what sweet pleasure and 
pardonable pride were felt by the parents, 
who, after their respectful salutations to the 
good knight and his company, at their door 
watched their young son as long as ever 
they could hold him in sight, sitting his pal- 
frey so gallantly, he was the admiration of 
all who saw him. I'faith ! It was a thing to 
talk of for the rest of their days, and the good 
dame was never known to tire of it. 

Away they went ; Sir Marmaduke, his 
two kinsmen, Master Peregrine, Sir Johan 
the chaplain, and young William, and some 
half dozen of the knight's serving men, all 
on horses ; and their passing along the town 
made the citizens come running out, and 
the dames were seen lifting up their babes 
that they might get a sight of good Sir Mar- 
maduke. Nothing was like the respect 
shown him wherever he passed, and for all 
he had cordial greeting, and some kind wore 
or another. Indeed, he was held in especial 
esteem wherever his name was known, and 
few there were in the whole country who 
knew it not, for the old knight was a gentle- 
man of ancestry and blood, of exceeding an- 
cient name, and of large possessions, whereof 
the greater part had been possessed by his 
family many generations. The De Larges- 
ses had also held high offices ; had been 
famous soldiers, prelates, judges, and the 
like honorable persons, and had ever been 
known for a fair name and an open hand. 
The present possessor appeared to have in- 
herited all the good qualities of his ances- 
tors ; and though he was called by no higher 
title than good Sir Marmaduke, I doubt 
hugely any prouder title could have become 
him better. He had never been known to be 
in a passion ; and though ever inclined for 
a jest, his mirth had no offence in it at any 
time. There sat he as stout of limb as of 
heart, on a noble grey horse, sleek-coated 
and well limbed, ever and anon patting his 
graceful neck with some commendable 
speech, which the poor brute beast took as 
proudly as though he knew the value oi 
such behavior from so respected a quarter. 

On each side of him rode his kinsmen in 
all the bravery of the times. They had 
gone to the wars in their youth, and though 
still scarce upon manhood, Sir Valentine 
being but twentv, and his cousin Sir Regi 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



ft 



Bald five years his senior, had shown such 
valor against the enemy that they had re- 
ceived knighthood. The first was full of 
fine chivalrous notions, as became his sol- 
diership ; and would have dared all manner 
of great dangers to have gained the kind 
opinions of fair ladies, as became his man- 
hood. Of the inestimable sweet pleasures 
of love could he think by the hour together ; 
and when he took to his gittern, doubtless it 
was to breathe forth some soft lay learned of 
him in France of the gallants there. Yet of 
a most honorable heart was he, as became a 
true lover ; and his rapier was ready to leap 
out of its scabbard at the bruit of any wrong 
done to any woman. He was of a clear 
transparent skin, whereon the delicate mous- 
tache had already come to some conspi- 
cuousness, and the sharp outline of each 
fair feature had such fineness as was exqui- 
site to behold. Eyes had he in color like 
unto a bright sky in harvest time, and his 
hair was of a rich soft brown, that grew in 
waving folds over all his head and neck. 

Sir Reginald was more manly-looking ; 
darker in complexion, hair, and beard ; less 
delicate in his notions; more free in his 
speech ; and was as ready for loving any 
pretty woman, yet did so with an indiscrimi- 
nateness which the other never affected. 
Both were strict friends, as they had proved 
in many a time of need in the hour of battle, 
and both were alike honorably disposed, and 
of unblemished reputations. These two 
young gentlemen rode their palfreys like 
gallants, putting them to their prettiest paees 
one against the other, and ever and anon 
turning round their handsome cheerful faces, 
with one hand holding the back of the saddle, 
and the other reigning up their gamesome 
steeds to see how their sport was relished by 
their kinsman, who it may well be believed 
took it very pleasantly, for he was ever an 
encourager of any innocent pastime that 
served to make more happy the passing 
hour. 

Behind them, a little way, rode Sir Johan, 
the chaplain, who would sometimes jog on 
alongside of his good patron, discoursing 
very soberly concerning how bountiful Pro- 
vidence had been to the surrounding country, 
seasoning his speech with such learning as 
did not savor of pedantry. For all this he 
was not indifferent to a jest on any proper 
occasion. Right well could he laugh at one 
himself, and with as much aptness furnish 
one for his company. Indeed, he was one of 
those rare divines who take upon them to 
think that whatsoever good thing may be 
met with, is provided for our especial enjoy- 
ment, and that tomislike them argueth utter 



ignorance, a wonderful lack of discretion, 
and a most unwarrantable and absolute in- 
gratitude. Therefore Sir Johan was never 
seen with a long face and a miserable 
preaching. His orthodoxy was evidently of 
a most comfortable sort. It agreed with him 
exceedingly, and sat on his round cheeks 
after a fashion that must have been wonder- 
fully enticing to all wretched fosterers of 
schism *nd heresy. Yet was he no Sir 
Nathaniel, but his very opposite. It is true 
he would eat and drink heartily at all rea- 
sonable hours ; but then he never forgot to 
give as hearty thanks, and always conduc- 
ted himself on such occasions with a credi- 
table decency the other was far from show- 
ing. Nothing was like the vigor of his piety 
after he had enjoyed himself to his heart's 
content; and the eloquence, the learning, 
and the zealousness with which he would 
then dilate upon the marvellous goodness of 
Providence, carried conviction to all hearers. 
His scholarship would have become a bishop, 
though he was nothing but a poor master of 
arts ; nevertheless, he was content with his 
station, and like a wise man enjoyed to the 
full whatever honest pleasures it brought 
within his reach. 

By his side usually rode Master Peregrine, 
in an antique suit that might have belonged 
to his grandfather ; in his figure an admi- 
rable contrast to the full proportions of the 
worthy chaplain; and he talked to the latter, 
or to the boy riding between them, when he 
could not get the other as a listener, as if he 
could never tire at it, of old books and bal- 
lads, their histories, contents, character, 
form and complexion. Indeed, he seemed 
familiar with everything that had been prin- 
ted since the invention of the art. The very 
talk of a rare book would put him into a 
rapture, and a ballad that was not to be met 
with he would think more precious than 
gold. Then he would speak in such choioe 
terms of Chaucer, and Gower, and Wyatt, 
and Surrey, and a many others, as though 
none could be of so great account ; but 
when he got to the speaking of ballads, 
nought could exceed the delectable manner 
in which he dilated upon them, in especial 
of such as were of a by-gone age. 

Wilham Shakspeare, as he rode between 
these two last, learned more of books than 
he had known all his days before. Nothing 
could be so pleasant to him as such dis- 
course. He listened with such earnestness 
as was the admiration of his companions, 
and asked questions so to the purpose, that 
they were never indisposed to answer him. 
More and more delighted was he to hear 
6uch famous books might be met with as 



94 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



those notatJe classic authors, both Greeks 
and Latins, Sir Johan spoke so learnedly on, 
and those exquisite sweet poets and roman- 
cers Master Peregrine mentioned so lovingly ; 
and he was quite in an ecstacy when they 
promised to make him better acquainted with 
their worth at such times as he chose to 
visit them at Sir Marmaduke's mansion. So 
rode he along in his neat suit of frolic 
green, as much at his ease as any of the 
company, till he was called upon to furnish 
their entertainment, as had been designed ; 
and then unfolded his store of ballads, and 
Master Peregrine assisted him with such 
particulars of their history as had come to 
his knowledge, that all allowed so proper a 
companion for a journey they could never 
have met with. 

On they proceeded in this orderly manner 
till they came to the town of Long Iching- 
ton, some seven miles distant, where my 
Lord of Leicester had erected a tent of such 
capaciousness and grandeur, never was 
seen the like ; and here it was intended to 
give her Majesty a truly magnificent ban- 
quet, previous to her departure to his Lord- 
ship's famous Castle of Kenilworth she 
was coming to honor with a visit. Now it 
should be known to all, the Earl of Leices- 
ter was in especial favor of the Queen, his 
mistress. No man more so; and as her 
Majesty in one of her progresses at that 
time, had given him assurance she would do 
him such honor as to make his castle her 
residence for some little while, he had busied 
himself with prodigious expenses to make 
becoming preparations. This visit of the 
Queen engrossed the public talk, and as a 
knowledge of the splendor of its accompany 
ments got abroad, the inhabitants of the ad- 
jacent neighborhood became the more im- 
K'ient to behold them. As for my Lord of 
icester, he was diversely reported ; some 
asserting there was not his like for a prodi- 
gal disposition ; and others, though they 
cautiously mentioned the matter, spoke of 
him as one who held no discipline over his 
passions, save before those who could punish 
him for his misdoings ; and that he scrupled 
not to use his great power to the furthering 
of any great wickedness he had a mind to. 

Be this as it may, our young traveller and 
his worshipful company, after seeing all at 
this town they could get a sight of, departed 
towards the evening, with her Majesty and 
an immense concourse of her royal subjects, 
to the Castle of Kenilworth. There, at her 
first entrance, was beheld a floating island 
on a pool, made bright with a many torches, 
whereon sat the lady of the lake with two 
nymphs, who, in very choice verse, gave her 



Highness a famous account of the history 
of that building and its owners. Close by 
was a Triton riding on a mermaid, at least 
some eighteen feet in length, and also Arion 
on a dolphin. The Queen passed over a 
stately bridge, in the base court, on each 
side of which, upon tall columns, were placed 
a store of all manner of delectable gifts, sup- 
posed to come from the Gods, such as a 
cage of wild-fowl from Sylvanus, sundry 
sorts of fruits from Pomona, great heaps of 
corn from Ceres, vessels of choice wine from 
Bacchus, divers kinds of sea-fish from Nep- 
tune, warlike appointments from Mars, and 
instruments of music from Phoebus : which 
rare conceit was much relished of all, and 
shouts rent the air as her Highness took 
note of them. 

AH this afforded wonderful entertainment 
to William Shakspeare ; but his marvel be- 
came the greater, when he beheld the infi- 
nite variety of such things which met him 
at every turn. He could never tire of ad- 
miring the rare beauty of that stately castle 
carved out of the hard quarry, the magnifi- 
cence of such of the chambers as his com- 
panions got him access to ; and the ravish- 
ing beauty of the garden, with its bowers, 
alleys, obelisks, spheres, white bears, with 
the ragged staff, the armorial bearings of the 
lordly owner, exquisite flowers, and deli 
cious fruits, that met him go which way he 
would. Again was he in a great pleasure 
at sight of a cage of some twenty feet, the 
outside garnished with all manner of shining 
stones, the inside decked with fresh holly 
trees, and furnished with cavernous places, 
where a multitudinous collection of foreign 
birds of all parts had been collected ; and, 
also, at beholding the grand fountain in 
fashion of a column made of two athelets, 
back to back, supporting a huge bowl, which 
by means of certain pipes, did distil con- 
tinual streams of water running, where a 
plenty of lively fishes were disporting oi 
themselves, along side of which were Nep- 
tune, with his trident and sea-horses; 
Thetis, in her chariot and dolphins ; Triton, 
in company with his fishes ; Proteus, herd- 
ing of his sea bulls ; and other of the like 
famous emblems, set in eight different com- 
partments, with admirable sculpture of 
waves, shells, and huge monsters of the 
deep, with the ragged staff in fair white 
marble at top, and gates of massy silver for 
entrance. 

But the sports that were then and there 
enacted for the Queen's pastime, none 
could have so relished as did he, especially 
the chase with the savage man, clad in ivy, 
and his company of satyrs ;, the bear-bait* 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



ingg and the fire-works, the Italian tumblers 
the festival of the brideale, and the games 
of running at the quintain and morrice danc- 
ing. Beside which, to his great diversion, 
he witnessed the Coventry men playing the 
old play of Hock Tuesday, representing in 
a sort of tilting match, and in dumb show, 
the defeat of the Danes by the English, in 
the time of King Etheldred, the which so 
pleased her Majesty, that she bestowed on 
the players two bucks, to make good cheer 
with, and five marks in money, to garnish 
the feast ; and after supper, the same even- 
ing, he was taken into the castle, to see a 
play of a higher sort played by men better 
approved in their art, that was then writ, 
and played for her Majesty's particular delec- 
tation ; and though it lasted two long hours, 
he was so enamored of the manner in which 
it was set forth, he would have been glad 
enough to have stayed all night, had they 
not come to an ending. 

All this, and wonderful deal more of 
splendor, pageantry, and pastime, was con- 
tinued in infinite variety for nineteen days, 
with such prodigal feasting and rejoicing as 
none had previously been acquainted with ; 
and the entire of it good Sir Marmaduke 
took care his young companion should see, 
during which he had him as well lodged, 
and as carefully provided, as if he had been 
his own son, he was so well pleased with 
him ; and either he, Master Peregrine or 
Sir Johan, explained the character and pur- 
port of such things as he knew not of, so 
that he reaped both pleasure and profit 
wherever he went. Every thing was to 
him so new and strange, that he was kept 
in a continual state of pleasurable excite- 
ment he had never known all his life before 
— even the choice excellence of Gammer 
Gurton's Needle was eclipsed by the singu- 
lar fine recreation he was then enjoying. 

It did sometimes happen that although he 
strove all he could to keep with his com- 
pany, the}' would get separated in the throng, 
and then he would have a great to do to find 
them again ; and once after the old knight 
had promised he would take him to see her 
Majesty, of whom he had not as yet got a 
sight, because of the crowd of nobles that 
were ever around her, a sudden press of 
persons going in a contrary direction set 
them so far asunder, that in a few minutes 
the boy found himself in a place where there 
were many turnings, of which it was im- 
possible to say which might be the one his 
friends had taken. Believing he was not 
like to gain the required knowledge by ask- 
ing, where such a multitude of strange per- 
sons were assembled, he chose a path with 



the determination of seeking all ways till he 
found the right one. He wandered up and 
down the green .allies, greatly admiring the 
deliciously various trees, bedecked with 
apples, pears, and ripe cherries, the beds of 
blushing strawberries, and the plots of fra- 
grant herbs and flowers, which cast beauty 
and sweetness wherever he walked, yet of 
his friends saw he not the slightest sign ; 
indeed, he had gone so far he at last met 
with no person of any kind. Getting to be 
somewhat bewildered at searching so long 
with such small profit, upon turning round 
a corner he came suddenly upon a lady and 
gentleman, with a grand company at some 
distance behind. The gentleman was most 
gorgeously apparelled. Nothing could be so 
costly as the rich satin embroidered with 
gold and jewels that formed his cloak, save 
the delicate fabric of his doublet, wherein 
the same glorious magnificence was appa- 
rent. A massy gold chain of a curious 
fashion, hung over his breast — gems of 
price glittered on the handle of his dagger 
— his sword seemed wrought with the like 
preciousness — his hose were of the delicat- 
est pink silk, woven with silver threads all 
over the upper part of the leg where they 
joined the trunks, which were of crimson 
and orange color prettily slashed and richly 
embroidered like the sleeves of the doublet. 
The rest of his appointments corresponded 
with what hath been already described, and 
being of a fine make and somewhat hand- 
some countenance, they became him infi- 
nitely. He appeared to be playing the gal- 
lant to his fair companion, for there was an 
air of exceeding deep homage and admira- 
tion in the looks with which he regarded 
her. 

The lady was attired in a full robe of 
white satin ornamented with rosettes in 
great number, — in the midst of which was 
a pearl in every one, — trimmed with the 
richest lace. A rufF of lace still more costly 
lay in folds upon her neck, surmounted by 
wings of stiffened lawn, set all round with 
pearls- Her hair was combed from the 
forehead, and pearls of a very large size set 
in it, with othe,r pearls equally precious; 
but pearls appeared to be a favorite orna- 
ment, for besides what have been mentioned, 
they were in her ears, — they were round her 
neck, and upon her bosom, — a long string 
of them hung down to her stomacher, — ana 
they were worked into the material of her 
dress wherever there was place for them. 
She was of a fair complexion, well featured, 
though she could not be called in her youth, 
of an agreeable aspect, and of an excellent 
stately deportment, and appeared to be Us- 



76 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



tening with singular satisfaction to what 
fell from the gallant at her side. 

" What ho, my young master, what seek- 
est thou ?" exclaimed she, upon noticing of 
William Shakspeare standing looking at the 
two, as if so dazzled with the brave show 
they made, he knew not at first whether to 
turn back or go on ; but believing them to 
be persons of worship, had taken off his hat, 
and stood respectfully to let them pass. 

1 An' it please you I have lost my way," 
cried he. " 1 have been forced to part from 
my friends, by reason of the great crowd, 
and should I not overtake them soon, per- 
chance I may miss seeing the Queen, the 
which famous sight they were proceeding to 
when T was forced away from them." 

" Hast never seen the Queen ?" inquired 
the lady seemingly charmed with the in- 
genuousness of the boy's manner. 

" No, indeed, I have not, by reason of the 
throng about her," answered he. " But I 
should be right glad to see her, for never 
yet have I seen a Queen of any kind, and I 
have heard say our Queen Elizabeth is a 
most gracious lady." At hearing this the 
lady looked at her companion, and he at her 
with a peculiar smile, doubtless of some 
pleasant manner. 

"And suppose I show thee Queen Eliza- 
Deth, my little master, what wouldst say to 
ner ?" asked she. 

" Nay, I would say naught of mine own 
iccord," said the other, " as methinks it 
might savor of a too great boldness in me ; 
Dut asked she of me any question, I would 
with all proper courtesy answer as I best 
could, — and doubt not I would thank you 
heartily for affording me so brave a sight." 

" By my troth, well said !" exclaimed the 
lady, as if in an excellent satisfaction. 
" What say you, my Lord of Leicester, shall 
we show this youngster, that speaks so pret- 
tily, what he has such huge desire to see ?" 
added she, turning with an arch look to her 
gallant. 

" O' my life, to my thinking he deserveth 
no less," replied the nobleman. 

" An' it please you," said William Shak- 
speare respectfully, " it seemeth to me you 
must needs be the Queen Herself I" 

" Ha , young sir ! and why dost fancy 
that ?" exclaimed Queen Elizabeth, for as 
the reader may readily believe it was no 
other. 

"Because you have so brave an appear- 
ance with you," answered he, " and look so 
gracious withal. Indeed, an' you, are not 
her in truth, I should be well pleased and 
you were, for never saw I so excellent sweet 
a lady." 



" Indeed ! But thou playest the courtier 
betimes, my pretty master !" cried her ma- 
jesty in an admirable good humor. 

" And the varlet doth it so gracefully I" 
added my Lord of Leicester, who seemed to 
be as much taken with him as was his royal 
mistress. 

" Here is a remembrance for thee," said 
the queen, giving him a gold piece out of 
her purse ; " I do applaud thy wit in having 
made so notable a discovery ; and doubt not, 
if thou goest on as well as thou hast com- 
menced, thou and fortune will shake hands 
anon !" 

Then calling to some of those her officers 
who were behind her, her majesty gave the 
boy to them with strict charge to seek out 
his friends, and deliver him to them safely ; 
but it so happened he had not proceeded far 
in such custody, when he met them ; and 
all were in some marvel to hear what 
strange adventure he had fallen into. 

It wae getting towards eve of the same 
day, when two persons stood close' under the 
terrace that lay along the castle. One was 
closely muffled up, and endeavoring all he 
could to hide his face and person from ob- 
servation, and he kept continually turning 
of his eyes in every direction to note if any 
were watching, whilst he spoke in a low 
voice to his companion. The other was also 
cloaked, but seemed more intent upon heark- 
ening to the discourse of his associate than 
to any other matter. 

" Art sure of her person ?" asked the first 
in a low whisper. 

" I marked her well, my lord," answered 
the other in the same subdued voice ; " O' 
my fife, never saw I so exquisite fair a crea- 
ture I" 

" Indeed she is of ravishing perfections — 
a very angel in the bud !" exclaimed his 
companion in a fervent ecstacy. " Fresh in 
youth and perfect in beauty ! in brief, I have 
never seen her peer in all my experience. 
Do as I would have thee, thy fortune' 
made." 

" Count upon her as your own, my gooa 
lord." 

" But be cautious, on your life." 

" Be assured, in subtlety I will beat the 
cunningest fox that ever robbed hen-roost." 

" Away ! I cannot stay another minute, 
or mv absence will be marked." Where- 
upon both glided different ways in the sha- 
dow, and were no more visible. 

Among the company the fame of these 
princely pleasures had attracted to Kenil- 
worth, were Sir Thomas Lucy and his good 
dame, who had brought with them, as an at 
tendant to the latter, no other than theil 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



77 



pretty foundling, the gentle Mabel, now 
grown to be that indefinable delicate exam- 

Ele of feminine graces that lieth betwixt girl- 
ood and womanhood. Under the careful 
instruction of her patroness, she had been 
well schooled in all such learning as was 
proper for a young person of sued humble 
fortunes ; but of her own natural well-dis- 
posedness she acquired such wisdom as 
would have have fitted her had she come of 
the noblest families. Of her parents none 
knew a syllable ; and Dame Lucy fancying 
none but mean persons could behave so 
meanly as to desert their child, had brought 
her up in such fashion as showed she consid- 
ered her origin to be of the humblest, intend- 
ing her for a servant, and ever attempting 
to impress on her mind a humility corre- 
sponding with one meant for so pitiful a con- 
dition. However, having resolved she should 
go to Kenilworth in their company the good 
Dame had taken care her attire should be of 

better sort than what she usually wore, 
never failing the whilst she gave them for 
her wearing, to accompany them with a no- 
table fine homily upon the wickedness of 
poor girls seeking to put on them such ap- 
parelling as was above their station. 

Mabel was that evening standing between 
her elderly companions beholding the fire- 
works. There was a huge crowd a little 
way before her. A strange gallant very 
courteously directed the attention of the 
knight and his lady to what was worthiest 
of notice, and in a very friendly manner gave 
them intelligence of what was going to be 
done, at what cost it had been made, and by 
whose skilfulness it was constructed ; to the 
which, Sir Thomas Lucy in especial, gave 
famous attention, entering cheerfully into 
the discourse, and striving to appear as fa- 
miliar with the matter as his instructor. 

" I warrant you !" exclaimed he ; " me- 
thinks I ought to know something of such 
things. Ay, marry, I have been as familiar 
with them as am I with my hand." 

" As I live, I took you to be some learned 
gentleman when I had first sight of you," 
cried the stranger, with an appearance of 
monstrous respect ; " you have it in your 
face, sir; indeed your look savoreth so much 
of sagacity that none can mistake it. Doubt- 
less you are some great Doctor ?" 

" O' my word, but a simple knight o' the 
shire, good sir," replied the other in a fa- 
mous satisfaction. 

" And a justice of peace, Sir Thomas," 
added Dame Lucy, anxious her husband's 
greatness should not be imperfectly known. 

" I would have sworn it !" exclaimed their 
»50mpanion. 



" By'r Lady now, is it so visible ?" cried 
the other, as much astonished as gratified. 

" But, as I was about saying, when I was 
at college I was wonderfully given to the 
study of chemicals and alchemy ; ay, to such 
extreme that I make no manner of doubt I 
should have got at the philosopher's stone 
had I kept at my experiments long enough." 

" Of that I am assured," observed the 
stranger. 

" But my chief pleasure was in the mak- 
ing of strange fires that would burn of ail 
colors," continued the knight. " These I 
learned of a famous clerk, who was study- 
ing chemicals, and was considered more apt 
at it than any of his time." 

" A very Friar Bacon, doubtless, Sir 
Thomas," said his companion. 

" Marry, yes, that was he," replied the 
justice. 

" Now, I was ever a letting off my fires, 
to the terror of all.simple people, who could 
not fancy they were of this world, and mar- 
vellous proper sport had I on such occasions ; 
for, as I live, I was such a fellow at tricks I 
had not my match, go where I would." 

" I would I had known you then ; I was 
just such another," exclaimed the stranger, 
very merrily. 

" Ay, it would have done your heart good 
to have seen the tricks I have played," con- 
tinued Sir Thomas, laughing with exceed- 
ing heartiness. " I have been as wild a colt 
as ever broke his tether, 1 promise you." 

" No, indeed, have you ?" cried the other, 
joining in his companion's mirth to some 
excess. 

" By cock and pye, yes ; and among the 
bona robas too," added he, in a voice and 
manner meant to be still more facetious, as 
he gave his companion a sly nudge at the 
elbow. 

" Odds my life, Sir Thomas !" exclaimed 
the stranger, apparently increasing the 
greatness of his humor, " you were a fit 
companion for the Sophy." 

" I was as familiar with them all as though 
we had been cousins," added the knight, af- 
ter the same fashion. " Indeed I was so 
partial to these pretty ones, that if any my 
fellows said, ' Yonder is a kirtle,' ofi' would 
I start on the instant, though I had a mile to 
run." 

" Fie, fie, Sir Thomas !" exclaimed Dame 
Lucy, good humoredly ; then turning to the 
stranger with a monstrous innocent sort ot 
countenance, added, " Think not so ill ol 
him, good sir, I pray you, for I have known 
him this thirty year and more, and he hath 
never done ought of the kind, I'll warrant." 

" I doubt it not, believe me," replied the 



78 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



other, with more sincerity than he chose 
should be known. " But if it please you to 
come a little more to this side," said he, 
with exceeding courteousness, " You shall 
behold what is far beyond what you have 
already seen." 

" We will, and thank you," answered Sir 
Thomas, eagerly, and he with Dame Lucy, 
presently moved in that direction. 

In the meanwhile, another courteous gen- 
tleman was paying similar attentions to the 
fair Mabel, who received them in a thank- 
ful spirit, as she ever did any appearance of 
kindness from another. He told her the 
wonders of the castle — the great power and 
princely magnificence of the possessor — 
what famous noble lords and fair ladies were 
of the company, and the unparalleled pre- 
ciousness of the jeweled silks and velvets 
that were of their wearing; and he took 
care to season all with some delicate flat- 
tery or another, well suited to win the ear 
of one of her youth and inexperience. 

" Indeed these nobles have a fine time of 
it, methinks," said her companion. " They 
have everything that heart can wish for, at 
their command ; and any fair creature who 
is so fortunate as to win the love of such, 
cannot help knowing that extreme happi- 
ness few have any notion of. Dost not 
think women so fortunate are greatly to be 
envied, sweetest ?" 

" Doubtless, honorable sir. if they be 
worthy," replied Mabel. 

" Crowds of servants come at their com- 
mand," continued the stranger, more earn- 
estly. " Whatever they can fancy, let it be 
of ever such cost, is brought to them ere 
they can well say they want it — the exquis- 
itest sweet music fills the air around them 
day and night — all manner of ravishing per- 
fumes of flowers and herbs and odoriferous 
gums, enrich the atmosphere they breathe ; 
and he whose princely nature they have so 
bound in their chains as to hold him prison • 
er to their admirable lustrous eyes, is ever 
at their will, glorifying them with his praise, 
deifying them with his devotion, and mak- 
ing every hour of their lives redolent with 
the unutterable ecstacies of his sovereign 
and most absolute affections. Dost not 
think such women infinitely fortunate ?" 

" I know not how they could help being 
so. were they well disposed," answered the 
foundling. 

" Just so, sweetest one," observed the 
gallant. " Now, supposing such thing as 
this should happen ; — some such noble per- 
son as I have described — the equal of the 
proudest — the master of the wealthiest, get- 
ting sight of your most absolute graces — " 



" What, I ?" exclaimed Mabel, in a fa- 
mous astonishment. 

" And straightway falling enamored of 
the bright perfections of your spotless na- 
ture," continued he ; " his princely heart 
thrilling with thedivinest sensations, should 
be in a feverish impatience to cast his great- 
ness at your feet, and all out of love for 
such inestimable choice beauty of mind and 
feature, should be ready to fall out with life, 
if by chance you deny him the happiness he 
would find in your inestimable company." 

" Surely, you are jesting, good sir," ob- 
served his fair companion. " I know not of 
such things as you speak of. Indeed, I am 
so humble a person, none such as you have 
said, would ever trouble themselves about 
me for a single moment; nevertheless I 
thank you kindly for your good opinion of 
me, and should be right glad to possess any 
merit that would make me deserve it better 
than I do." 

" That cannot be, o' my life, excellent 
creature ?" replied the gallant, with a seem- 
ing fervor. " 'Tis your too great modesty 
that preventeth you from seeing your own 
notable divine excellencies." 

" Indeed you think toe well of ,me — I have 
no sign of any such thing," said Mabel ; 
her truly unassuming nature shrinking from 
the flattery; then looking round, for the 
first time observed that Sir Thomas and 
Dame Lucy were nowhere near her. — 
" Alack ! where can they have gone !" ex- 
claimed she, in some to do. " They will be 
exceeding angry I took not better heed to 
keep close to them wherever they went, as 
they told me." 

" Speak you of your friends, sweetest ?" 
inquired the other, in an indifferent manner. 
" I saw them myself not a moment since, 
moving round this way. If you will allow 
of my protection, I will take care you join 
them so soon you shall not be missed at all." 

" I should be loth to put you to such trou- 
ble on my account, I thank you heartily," 
answered his fair companion, " I will seek 
them myself the way you have kindly told 
me." Thereupon, she moved in that di- 
rection, the gallant keeping at her side, but 
not a sign of the knight or his good dame 
could they see. 

" Woe is me, I have lost all sight of them !" 
cried Mabel, now in no little trouble of mind. 
" How heedless I must have been to have 
let them go away without my knowing it." 

" Surely there they are yonder !" exclaim- 
ed the stranger, pointing to two figures dim- 
ly discerned at the top of one of the green 
alleys, walking slowly away. 

" Indeed they have some likeness to them," 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



T9 



die replied, yet seeming to hesitate about 
their identity. 

" They cannot be any other, I would swear 
it," said the gallant, with monstrous earnest- 
ness ; " see you not the knight's very doub- 
let ? nay, an' you do not make some speed, 
they will turn the corner, and mayhap you 
may lose sight of them altogether." There- 
upon, Mabel, without another word, tripped 
lightly along the path — her companion still 
keeping close to her side — and when they 
got to the top they beheld the two persons 
they had seen turning round a corner into 
an alley beyond ; at the sight of which the 
poor foundling started off again in great 
anxiety to overtake them, but with no better 
success ; for however fast she ran, as she 
got to the end of one path, the figures were 
seen turning round at the end of another, 
and so it continued for such a time she would 
have given up the pursuit in despair, had 
not the gallant kept encouraging her to pro- 
ceed. At last, when she was nigh exhaust- 
ed with her exertions, and in extreme dis- 
comfort, because now she saw no appear- 
ance whatever of those she took to be the 
knight and his lady, on a sudden she heard 
a loud whistle behind her, that appeared to 
come from her companion — the which it did 
beyond %1 contradiction, for he had that mo- 
ment put a whistle to his mouth — and ere 
ehe could think what was the meaning of 
such strange behavior, two or three stout 
fellows rushed from a grove of trees close at 
hand, and despite of a sharp scream she 
gave, threw a large cloak over her, in the 
which she was muffled up in a minute, and 
borne helplessly along. 

" Never was hawk lured so cleverly," 
said the gallant, in evident gratification at 
the complete success of his villainous 
scheme. 

" She is now hooded, and must to her 
mews with what speed we can. Slight !" 
here sharply exclaimed he, seemingly in a 
very absolute vexation ; " what pestilent in- 
terruption is this ? But they are but two, 
bo haste, for your lives, we can give them 
work enough, prove they for meddling." 

It so happened that Sir Valentine and his 
friend were together in an adjoining walk, 
when they heard the whistle, and the. scream 
following close upon it ; their rapiers were 
out in an instant, and they were-just in time 
to see a female muffled up and borne away. 
This brought them to the spot presently. — 
Two of the villains carried Mabel, and were 
making off, whilst their companions were 
engaged with the young knights, who were 
using their weapons briskly with each an 
opponent ; but suddenly coming to the rest 



of Sir Valentine's party,. led by Sir Marma- 
duke, who had plucked out his trusty ra- 
pier, the moment he heard the clashing of 
blades, his imposing appearance struck a 
panic amongst them. The two fellows 
dropped their burthen, without caring to 
make his acquaintance, and, with the rest, 
made off in different directions. 

It was difficult to say which was most af- 
fected with the unusual loveliness of the 
gentle Mabel, Sir Valentine or Sir Reginald, 
as they disengaged her from her unwelcome 
covering, whilst the others assured her of 
her perfect safety. They were dumb with 
excess of admiration. Nothing they had 
seen or imagined came in any way like the 
exquisite innocency and faultless loveliness 
of her features. She seemed to them to be 
some fair spirit of a better world, such as 
ancient poets have described haunting clear 
streams and mossy caves, and the deep hol- 
lows of the emerald woods, by such names as 
sylphs, dryades, and the like. Woman she 
could scarce be styled, she looked so y^ung, 
and yet each was loath she should be called 
any other name, believing nothing was so 
worthy of love and reverence. As for the 
poor foundling, she was in some confusion 
to be so gazed upon by strangers ; she had 
not yet recovered from the surprise and fear 
she had been put to by the treachery of her 
late companion, and gazed about her, the 
prettiest picture of amazement that had ever 
been witnessed. Even the antiquarian stared 
through his spectacles at her so earnestly as 
he had at the ancientest ballad that had 
fallen into his hands ; and William Shak- 
speare, boy as he was, appeared as though 
there was a power in her admirable beauty 
he felt all through his nature, yet with a 
confused sense of its particular meaning, 
that would take no definite interpretation. 
It is here only necessary to add that the 
young and graceful creature found every 
possible attention and respect from those in 
whose company she had so fortunately fallen. 
A search was quickly commenced for the 
knight and his lady, and after some trouble, 
taken of the young knights as the sweetest 
pleasure they had ever enjoyed, she was re- 
stored to them, but not without such thanks 
from her, as, for the gentle, sweet gracious- 
ness with which they were accompanied, 
never left their memories from that time for- 
ward. As for William Shakspeare, he re- 
turned to his loving parents, surprising them 
greatly with the goodly store of gifts he 
would needs pour into his mother's lap, 
which had been bestowed upon him by his 
friends ; but putting them in a still greater 
wonder at his marvellous relations of what 



80 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



strange adventures he had had, and famous 
sights he had beheld, since he had been 
away. 



CHAPTER XL 

His browny locks did hang in crooked curls, 

And every light occasion of the wind 

Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls. 

His qualities were beauteous as his form, 

For maiden-tongued he was and therefore free. 

Shakspeare. 
For him was lever han at his beddes hed 
A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red, 
Of Aristotle, and his philosophie, 
Than robes riche, or ridel, or sautrie. 

Chaucer. 
Oh, ye gods, 
Give me a worthy patience ! Have I stood 
Naked, alone, the shock of many fortunes ! 
Have I seen mischiefs numberless and mighty 
Grow like a sea upon me 1 Have I taken 
Danger as stern as death into my bosom, 
And laughed upon it, made it but a mirth, 
And flung it by. * * * Do I 
Bear all this bravely, and must sink at last 
Under a woman's falsehood ! 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

" Nat, I cannot abide these new-fangled 
novelties," observed Master Peregrine, who 
with the others of the squire's company, 
with William Shakspeare in the midst, ap- 
peared to be examining of certain shelves of 
books that were in an antique oak chamber 
in Sir Marmaduke's mansion. " They be 
but for the delighting of dainty ears, and 
such whose fantasies are only to be tickled 
with fine filed phrases. I like not the boy 
should have such poor reading." 

" I assure you the Mirrour for Magis- 
trates is in excellent repute of all men," 
said Sir Reginald. " It is a very admirable 
fine poem, or series of legends, relating the 
falls of the -unfortunate princes of this land, 
first originating with my Lord Sackville, 
and now carried on by divers authors of re- 
putation." 

" Nay, I have here one that he will more 
approve of," cried Sir Valentine, as he held 
a volume in his hand that looked quite new. 
" It is called the Paradyse of Daynty De- 
vises, aptly furnished with sundry pithie and 
learned inventions, devised and written for 
the most part by Master Edwards, sometime 
of her Majesties chappel ; the rest by sun- 
dry learned gentlemen of honour and wor- 
shippe. It is full of delectable poems, I pro- 
mise you, that are read and hugely admired 
by all persons of quality." 



" I doubt not," said the chaplain, who bad 
also a book iri his hand. " But methinks I 
have something here far more fitting, of the 
ingenious Master Tuberville, being no other 
than the heroical epistles of the learned poet 
Publius Ovidius Naso, with Aulus Sabinus' 
answers to certaine of the same, a very fa- 
mous and proper classic." 

"What have we here?" cried the old 
knight, examining a volume he had just 
taken off the shelf. " A hundreth Good 
Pointes of Husbandrie, as I live, and very 
profitable reading doubtless." 

" Pish, what wants he with books of such 
a sort ?" inquired Master Peregrine impati- 
ently, as he regarded with particular satis- 
faction a huge folio from the same place. 
" This is such as he will like most. O' my 
word, it is a treasure beyond all price. This 
great rarity is entitled, A book of the noble 
Hystoryes of Kynge Arthur, and of certeyn 
of his Knyghtes," and is from Caxton's own 
press, and bears the date anno 1485. O 
what a jewel ! — O what a pearl of price ! — i 
In good fay, I can searce take my eyes ofl 
such an inestimable rare volume." 

William Shakspeare turned his intelligent 
eyes from one to another, as each recom- 
mended his particular book, almost puzzled 
which of these goodly volumes he should 
choose first, but in a wonderful impatience to 
be at one of them. 

" Methinks, after all, 'twill be best to let 
him make his own choice," observed Sir 
Marmaduke. " What say you, young sir, 5 ' 
said he to him. " Which of all these books 
think you the properest for your reading ?" 

" An' it please your worship," replied 
William, with much simplicity, " I must 
needs read them all before I can say which 
is best, with any justice." 

" E'en do so, then, if it likes you." ex- 
claimed the old knight, laughing heartily 
with the rest. " There are they — you are 
welcome to their perusal come when you 
will. But there is one volume I would have 
you take great note of, and that is called 
The Gentleman's Academie, or the Booke 
of St. Albans, writ by one Juliana Barnes, 
containing the choicest accounts of hawk- 
ing, hunting, armorie, I have met with any- 
where." 

" Truly, 'tis a most ravishing work !" said 
Master Peregrine. " A notable rare speci- 
men of the types of Wynkyn de Worde. 
But if you be for grave reading, choose you 
The Seven Wise Masters. If you are for . 
mirth, pitch upon The Hundred Merry Tales 
— if for the reading of other light tales, 
nought will so well serve your turn as The 
Palace of Pleasure. Take you to romances 



TRS YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



81 



»tj* mav tfnd cxquioks Aversion in Amidis 
of Gaul, i"alinoiii k of England, Huoh of Bor- 
deaux, Sir Bfcvis of Southampton, Sir Guy 
of Warwick, The Seven Champions, Valen- 
tyne and Orson, The Squire of Low De- 
gree, The Knight of Courtesio, and the La- 
dy Faguel, The Castle of Ladies, and a hun- 
dred others of equal great merit : but if you 
are for ballads, my young master, exquisite 
choice ballads and songs of old time, look 
you out for the Blind Beggar of Bethnal 
Green, Queen Dido, Fortune my Foe, Pep- 
per is Black, Adam Bell, Clymof the Clough, 
and William of Cloudesly, Robin Hood and 
the Pindar of Wakefield, and othens out of 
all number of every kind, subject, and qua- 
lity, which are here ready for your reading." 

" All such are well enough in their way," 
observed Sir Johan. " But if he take to 
reading of the classics, all other reading 
whatsoever advanceth him not a whit in his 
education. What can he learn of ancient 
history, save out of Herodotus, Thucydes, 
Zenephon, Titus Livius v Tacitus, and Cae- 
sar ; where in Philosophy can he have such 
guides as Aristotle, Socrates, Epicurus, Eu- 
clid, that famous master of figures ; Pliny, 
that curious observer of nature, that profound 
expounder of surgicals. In poetry what is 
like unto the works of Homer, Pindar, Ana- 
creon, Virgil, Horace, or Ovid ? And in 
eloquence, what can come in any way near 
unto Demosthenes, or Cicero ? Truly then 
the classics should be before all other books, 
for the study of any young person, and so it 
will be found in all colleges and schools 
throughout Christendom." 

These .advocates for modern and ancient 
learning, might have waxed warm in their 
dispute, had they been allowed, and the two 
young knights also took part in it in praise of 
chivalrous tales, Italian sonnets, and French 
lays and romances ; but Sir Marmaduke 
good humoredly put an end to the argument 
by telling them the dinner bell was a ring- 
ing, which caused them to forget their books 
awhile, and look to their appetites. 

Thus it will be seen that William Shaks- 
peare was bountifully provided for in all 
manner of learning, and it may well be be- 
.ieved he was not long in avai : ing himself 
of the treasures so liberally placed at his 
disposal. All spare time he could get was 
passed in the old knight's library, where he 
kept like a bird in a granary, feeding on the 
pienteous store in a most grateful spirit, and 
with no desire to move from such excellent 
neighborhood. But he was rarely left alone 
for any great period, for Sir Marmaduke and 
'lis friends were too well pleased with his 
iickness of apprehension and untiring in- 



dustry, not to do all in their power to assist 
the studies of so promising a scholar ; there- 
fore he was sure to have with either the old 
knight himself, who would readily go over 
with him any creditable book of legends, or 
ancient customs and sports ; or his chaplain, 
who took huge pains he should not be in- 
different to the treasures of classic lore, 
never forgetting by the by to put in on an 
occasion, some most moving discourse on the 
gotidnes3 of Providence, and explain the chief 
points of afl moral doctrine. Then came 
Master Perregrine ready to cuddle him with 
delight, should he find him intent upon some 
worm eaten blank letter folio, or a bundle of 
old ballads, and h& would not rest till he had 
made his pupil familiar with whatsoever 
concerning of them he thought worthy of 
knowing — and at another time he would be 
visited by the two young knights with whom 
he was in particular esteem, and they were 
ever striving to possess him with the notion 
that the gallantest accomplishments were 
the most worthy of study, especially of the 
Italian tongue, and that nought was like 
unto the sweetness of Petrarch, the pleas- 
antry, of Boccacio, or the grandeur of Dante, 
Tasso and Ariosto. 

From this it is evident on the face of, that 
none could have a fairer schooling than our 
young scholar. Indeed, he now gained 
more knowledge in a day than he could have 
had of that pedantic, poor ignoramus, his 
schoolmaster, all his life ; and it was the 
marvel of all to notice how famously he got 
on in his learning. There appeared to be 
nothing he could not give a reason for, or 
description of, for he took infinite trouble by 
asking questions of all sorts of people, as 
well as by conning of every book in Sir 
Marmaduke's library, to remain ignorant of 
as little as possible. Hour after hour hath 
he passed at a time over some pithy book, 
till his head would ache with the intentness 
with which he would give his mind to the 
matter of it — then away he went like a 
wild buck of the forest, broke loose from 
confinement,- over the green fields and 
through the nutty woods, hither and thither 
everywhere, drinking within his nostrils, 
choked with the closeness of musty volumes, 
the sweet pure air freshened with the cool 
breeze — and at his aching eyes, tired of the 
sameness of so much paper and print, taking 
in with as greedy a draught the pleasant 
greenness of the teeming soil, and the deli- 
cate soft blue of the expanding heavens. 

Some how or another it happened, that he 
often found himself thinking of the beauti- 
ful fair creature he had seen rescued by his 
lYriends, from the hands of villains, when he 



83 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSI £ARE. 



was enjoying the princely pleasures of Ken- 
ilworth. In his solitary musings, whereof 
after any deep study, he had of late taken 
to, her radiant features would suddenly glide 
into his youthful mind, like as a sudden 
burst of sunshine pierceth the leafy branches 
of a young tree ; and all his thoughts took 
a character of such brightness on the in- 
stant, as showed there was some power of 
brilliancy in her image that made resplend- 
ent its whole neighborhood. This to him 
was both new and strange. The forms of 
beauty of which he had had experience, and 
they were by no means few, had given him 
delight — but here was something presented 
to him of a totally different character — of a 
most singular admirable loveliness ; and the 
pleasure he derived from its observation he 
felt to be of a far more exquisite sort than 
he had known heretofore. The varied dies 
of the delicatest flowers peeping from their 
vernal coverts — the tall monarchs of the 
forests, bending their haughty heads to the 
rude wind — the soft mingling of field and 
wood, hill, stream and valley, bathed in their 
mellow tints, that made up the ravishing fair 
landscape — the glorious show of unsurpass- 
ed magnificence, visible at the sun's rising 
and going down, which clothed the skies, 
like an oriental conqueror, in a garment of 
purple and gold, and the more graceful 
splendor of the quiet night, when earth's 
unrivalled roof seems as though carved all 
about with the likeness of a goodly almond 
tree, as 'tic seen at eve, with its verdure 
deepening into a dark blue, spread over in 
every part with myriads of silvery blossoms 
— he could enjoy with such huge zest as 
hearts attuned to sympathy with the beauti- 
ful can alone have knowledge of; but in the 
outward lineaments of this novel sign of the 
presence of nature's unrivalled handiwork, 
there appeared such moving graces, that 
plainly showed the masterpiece confessed ; 
and he had some glimpses, in the delicious 
raptures which an increasing familiarity 
with his mental perception of the beautiful 
promised him, of that marvellous deep 
meaning which Heth most manifestly in the 
choicest and perfectest shape in which our 
bountiful mother hath given it a dwelling. 
Let none feel incredulous of what is here 

Eut down. Though still in years apparent, 
nt of an unripe boyhood, the child had in 
him the greatness of the man in embiyo. 
Take you the bud, examine it narrowly, you 
shall find in it a miniature-tree, perfect in all 
its parts ; or the bean — as its sides have 
opened to show some promise of what it 
will be — and behold all the characters of 
the plant minutely visible to your close in 



spection ! Nature never varyeth from hex 
first original type. In all things that pro- 
mise a profitable increase, the power is fold- 
ed up in the germ, where, despite of disad- 
vantages, it will gradually unfold itself, till 
the character she hath put forth upon it is 
perfectly developed to all men's eyes. Could 
we look into the immaturity of any of those 
great ones, whose mental fruits have been 
the nourishing diet of every age that hath 
passed since they flourished, be sure that 
we should find at such early period, the very 
appearances and manifestions of their after 
perfection, as are here imperfectly described 
concerning of William Shakspeare. As for 
beauty, it is the very sunshine of the soul, 
without which shall the seed of greatness 
lie dormant as in a perpetual frost ; but di- 
rectly it beginneth to make itself felt, out 
come stem, root, and leaflet, with such 
goodly vigor, that in a presently the brave 
plant putteth out its branches so lovingly, 
nought can resist its progress ; and lo ! in a 
little while, what numberless rare blossoms 
appear, manifesting in themselves the quali- 
ty by which they were created. 

But our young scholar was not the only 
one on whom the attractions of the gentle 
Mabel had made a powerful impression. Sir 
Valentine, and his friend, oft spoke of her to 
each other with exceeding admiration, to 
which if in his company, the boy would 
listen with a flushed cheek and a throbbing 
heart, seeming to be poring over his book- 
but this he had as clean lost sight of for the 
nonce as if it and he were a hundred miles 
apart. * 

" She is, indeed, a delectable creature !" 
exclaimed Sir Valentine, as they three were 
together in the library. "She seemed a 
being just stepped out of some French ro- 
mance, one of the virtues perchance, or 
better, some incomparable damsel, possessed 
of them all in her own fair person, who was 
about falling into the hands of a powerful 
ogre, or other monstrous villain that is a toe 
to chastity, when we two knights going 
about to redress wrong and defend oppressed 
innocence, each tor the honor of chivalry 
and his liege lady, stepped up to her rescue, 
and by the help of our valor, quickly deliv- 
ered her from her enemies." 

" A most moving picture," cried Sir Regi- 
nald, laughingly ; " I would give something 
to see it done in tapestry." 

" O' my word, 'twould be a fine subject," 
said his friend, with some earnestness; "I 
doubt not, too, of especial profit to the gazer ; 
and I would have it worked in this sort. 
There should be yourself, and I, your ap- 
proved friend and companion in arms, giving 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



83 



two of the villains furious battle ; and in a 
little way off our brave kinsman — another 
famous pillar of knighthood — shall be putting 
to flight the other two rascals away from 
their expected victim, who shall be lying 

E rostrate under a tree, where she hath been 
;ft, in a very moving tribulation. A little 
way from this we will have a second pic- 
ure, with the villains making oft in the dis- 
tance — the lady now in a pretty fright and 
Dewilderment, looking about her with Mas- 
ter Chaplain, Master Antiquarian, and our 
young scholar, as country persons natural 
of those parls, gazing at her with exceeding 
curiousness, whilst her three valiant cham- 
pions shall stand, leaning on their weapons, 
as though they were amazed at beholding 
such heavenly grace in so pagan a place." 

"Never heard I so brave a limner!" ex- 
claimed the other, in the like pleasant humor ; 
" Why thou wouldst beat the cunningest mas- 
ter of the art out of the field. O' my life, in 
thy hand the painted cloth would be more 
moving than history ; and we should speed- 
ily have all lovers of true valor, instead of 
seeking the enemy's encampment, studying 
lessons of knighthood from thy arras." 

"Well I should be right glad to know 
what hath become of her," said Sir Valen- 
tine. I like not parting so quickly with so 
rare an acquaintance, I promise you. Nev- 
ertheless methinks 'tis marvellous such a 
strange person as that Sir Thomas Lucy 
should have so exquisite a daughter. Had 
he been in any way civil I would have be- 
stowed some pains to please him, shrivelled 
pippin as he looks to be ; but he spoke so 
sharply to the gentle creature, and looked 
at us with so crabbed an expression, that I 
was in haste to be quit his company ; therefore 
I have been in perfect ignorance up to this 
date where she is to be found." 

" I have at least discovered the old fel- 
low's residence," said Sir Reginald. 

" Ha, indeed !" cried Sir Valentine, in a 
famous exultation. " Perdie, that is excel- 
lent news. Where doth the pagan place so 
fair a jewel ? Tell me, I prithee, for I would 
impawn my heart to get but another sight 
of her." 

" Marry, but I think 'tis impawned al- 
ready, good cousin," observed his friend 
with an arch smile. " Thou seemest so 
monstrous eager on the matter ; but not to 
baulk thy exceeding curiousness, for my 
humor jumps with it, believe me, — know 
that this peerless damsel hath her bower at 
Charlcote, where the knight of despite, her 
father, holdeth his court." 

" To horse, for Charlcote ho !" exclaimed 
his young companion, rising from his seat 



in a merry manner, as if impatient to be 
gone. 

" But let me advise thee of sufficient cau- 
tion," said his kinsman with an admirable 
mock gravity ; great dangers beset thy path. 
Ogres, giants, basilisks, and dragons await 
thee on every side. Horror will cross thy 
steps ; despair dog thy heels ; revenge com* 
eth on thy right hand, and cruelty on thy 
left. By my valor, sir knight, methinka 
thou hadst best refrain from so perilous an 
adventure." 

" Amor vincit omnia !" replied the other 
after the same pleasant fashion; and thus 
jesting and bantering, the two friends a few 
minutes after, left our young scholar — who 
had drunk in every word of their discourse 
to pursue his studies in solitude. Little 
more of the book before him attempted he 
acquaintance with for some time before and 
long after their leaving him. He thought, 
and the more he thought the more thought- 
ful he grew ; but his thoughts were as gos- 
samer webs hovering over a field, that catch 
nought but other webs of a like sort ; they 
appeared moreover to have no purport ; they 
went in no direct path ; but proceeded over 
and across, around and about, always re- 
turning to the starting point, — and what 
should that be but the same fair creature he 
had seen at Kenilworth, that the gay knights 
had talked of in such delicate terms. 

In the meanwhile, at all proper intervals, 
he assisted his father as far as in him lay ; at 
other times running of errands with an alacri- 
ty and cheerfulness none could help admiring. 
John Shakspeare strove all that honest man 
could to keep his family in comfort. He 
would seek to do a little in his old trade of 
wool, and also something as a glover ; but 
though thrift and diligence were twin com- 
panions with him at all times, the expenses 
of a family would often run him down at 
heel. Perchance, however desirous he 
might be to pay as he went, and no man 
more so, it might happen when the baker 
called there was no money. Mortaging a 
small property brought him by his wife car- 
ried him on a little ; but this could not last 
forever, do what he would, and it became no 
uncommon thing when he was ready for 
his dinner, to have no dinner ready for him. 
His neighbors were ever ready to lend him 
a helping hand ; but having experienced 
their friendly feeling in some measure, he 
liked not letting them know he required it 
again, fearing to exhaust their goodness. 
xW that our young scholar gained by friend- 
ly gifts was presented to his parents as 
speedily as he could : and be sure he felt 
more exquisite gratification in so bestowing 



84 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



it, than he experienced in any other thing 
whatsoever ; but it sometimes happened 
when he was at Sir Marmaduke's, or 
other bountiful friends, before a goodly 
meal, the thought that his loving parents 
had at that time nothing of the sort to put 
before them, would so move him he could 
not touch a morsel of anything, however 
tempting it might be. And as for his good 
mother and father, they cared more their 
son should keep a decent appearance, so 
that he might do no discredit to his compa- 
ny, than they heeded their own eomforts. 

Methinks there cannot be in nature so 
truly pitiful, and yet a sight so noble withal, 
as an honest man struggling with adversity. 
Note how he labors to bt.'.o - up his heart 
against the crushing weight of his stern 
necessities. See his nature — a proud na- 
ture, perchance, for there is no pride like 
that of honesty — reduced to the mean re- 
sorts of poverty's most absolute rule. Be- 
hold the fallacious smile and abortive cheer- 
fulness under which he would strive to hide 
the iron entering his soul ! Want winds 
her serpent folds around him, and eats into 
his vitals ; Ruin hovers over him on vul- 
ture's wings to seize him for her prey ; 
Disgrace points at him; Shame follows on 
his steps ; and Fear seeks to disturb the 
pleasant shelter of his dreams ; but the hon- 
est man holds up his head like a flag upon 
a wreck, and when that rude villain Death 
would take the wall of him, doffs his beaver 
with a natural dignity mere gallantry can 
have no example of. 

Such it was with John Shakspeare. He 
did his best, but his best failed. He put 
forth all his strength, but all his strength 
was insufficient. The brand of poverty ap- 
peared to have marked him for her own ; 
but worse than that to him, he saw his 
wife pining, and his children wanting 
nourishment. In such a state of things it 
might have been thought that he would 
have made application to some of the per- 
sons of worship in his neighborhood, whose 
characters were a guarantee it would not 
. ave been made in vain ; but worthy per- 
sons when they fall to those poor shifts as 
render such an act necessary, are found 
monstrous loath to trouble the rich and pow- 
erful with their necessities. Sir Marma- 
duke doubtless would have very readily 
done him such service ; but he had no in- 
timation his assistance was required.; Wil- 
liam Shakspeare always making such an 
appearance, by means already spoken of, 
which prevented him from entertaining any 
ei'-spicions his father was in any other but 
comfortable circumstances ; and the poor 



glover, however meanly off he might be, 
could never bring himself to hazard his son's 
prospects with so great a friend, by impor- 
tuning of the latter with his own hapless 
condition. • 

At last, after a protracted struggle with 
himself on the matter, and things getting to 
wear a more serious aspect, he made up his 
mind he would venture to move his old 
friend John a Combe. Strange rumors had 
been afloat for some time concerning of this 
good gentleman. On a sudden he had been 
missed from Stratford, and after some years 
stay, had again returned — but oh, how 
altered a man ! Those who saw him scarce 
knew him, and those whom he saw he seem- 
ed determined he would not know. It was 
said there were such marked lines in his 
pallid countenance, as though a thousand 
cares had ploughed their furrows in the 
flesh, and tiiat when he walked abroad, 
which was something rare in him, he 
would mingle with none, greet none, be 
known of none — but move slowly along, 
with his body bent, and his eyes fixed sul- 
lenly on the ground, sometimes moving of 
his lips — though what fefl from them none 
could say. It was also reported that he had 
become an usurer — lending of his money at 
exorbitant charges, and being exceeding 
strict in forcing the payment. Not a word 
of this would John Shakspeare believe. 
What, that noble heart become a selfish sol- 
itary, he had known of so social a spirit — or 
that generous nature debase itself with ava- 
rice, he had seen risking tJio horriblest death 
out of pure philanthropy ! Jt was clean 
impossible. They must most grossly belie 
him who reported of him any such mean- 
ness. So thought the poor glover of his old 
acquaintance, and with these thoughts he 
one morning took his staff in his hand and pro- 
ceeded to his dwelling. 

At his first entrance at the gate, John 
Shakspeare saw there was at least a nota- 
ble change in the house once so familiar to 
him. Everything around^ and about it look- 
ed strange and desolate, and as opposite to 
the state in which it used to be kept, as any 
two things could chance to be. The fair 
garden that once was the pride of the place 
for its order and trimness, appeared now a 
mere heap of weeds, straggling bushes, and 
withered plants. The goodly trees that 
were wont to be so well trailed against the 
wall, had broke from their bindings, and lay 
with their straggling branches almost leaf- 
less, with the unchecked ravages of vermin 
and neglect. The dwelling seemed no lesu 
wretched. A broken casement, and a porch 
dirty and crumbling with decay, spoke how 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



€5 



little outward appearances were now cared 
for by the possessor. John Shakspeare 
shook his head at noting of these things. 
It then occurred to him that some fearful 
change must have taken place in John ft 
Combe, else John a Combe's dwelling could 
never have come to so pitiful a condition. 

The door was cautiously opened by a 
sour looking slovenly old dame, instead of a 
neat pretty handmaid, and active young ser- 
ving man, that had used to have been so 
ready to show a visitor all proper courtesy, 
and alter sharply interrogating him on his 
business, she led him through the hall — 
where everything spoke a similar story of 
indifferency to all comfort and cleanliness, 
as did the ruined garden and delapidated 
porch — into a small back chamber choking 
with dust. Here before a heap of many pa- 
pers and parchments, sat his worthy and 
esteemed friend Master Combe. John 
Shakspeare looked with greater intentness 
ere he would believe his own eyes. He 
saw before him a man he knew to be in the 
pride of manhood, with all the externals of 
decrepid age. The grey hair, the blanched 
cheek, and the sunken eye, could not be 
mistaken ; but besides these unwelcome 
signs, there was in his aspect a mingled ex- 
pression of agony and distrust, that was 
more moving than all. John Shakspeare's 
honest heart sunk within him, as he beheld 
this painful spectacle which exhibited the 
more wretchedness, by the mean habiliments 
in which it appeared, — for he who had used 
to dress in so becoming a fashion, he was 
admired of all, was now attired in coarse 
clothes and uncleanly linen, unworthy of a 
person even of the lowest quality. 

Master Combe stared at his old friend 
without the slightest sign of cordiality, or 
even of recognition ; and seemed as though 
he would have him say his errand without 
delay ; whereupon his visitor though more 
distressed at such a moment at the condi- 
tion of one he had known to be so good a 
man, than his own, presently gave an un- 
varnished tale of his losses and sufferings, 
and the stern necessity which had compelled 
him to ask a loan to aff >rd him some pre- 
sent help. Master Combe sat the tale out 
with a stone-like indifference. 

" What security hast got ?" said he at 
last, rather sharply. 

" None,'' replied his visitor, much pained 
at hearing of so unexpected a question. 

" What, come to me seeking of money 
without security !" exclaimed Mister Combe, 
as if in a monstrous surprise.'" Dost not 
know I am an usurer, and dost not know 
usurers lend not, save on sure grounds and 



profitable terms ? I must have ten in the 
hundred, and I must have something to hold 
upon of such value as will ensure the safe- 
ty of the loan." 

" Alack, 1 have it not," answered John 
Shakspeare, marvelling the generous nature 
of his old companion should have taken so 
ill a turn. " I expected not you were so 
changed, else I would not have troubled 
you. 

" Changed !" cried the other with a bitter 
emphasis. " Marry, yes, and a goodly 
change it must needs be. What, wouldst 
suppose I would remain all my days the 
generous confiding fool I have once been ? 
Have I not given without stint — have I not 
endured without flinching for the good of 
my fellows, and none ends else ? Lived I 
not in the strong belief of the excellence of 
humanity, and sought all means to show I 
was mysef a parcel of the whole? What 
good thing have I left undone that was in 
my power. Whe have I failed in the 
exercise of an impar : .. i benevolence ? When 
gave I not every 011.7 his !'.io, c kept my- 
self back when one unjust ...v. .'Gquired a 
defender ?" 

"Never, as I gladly tc :''y'' reclaimed 
his companion. 

" And what hath been r.y ] fit ?" in- 
quired Master Combe, s'dli "ore !. tterly, as 
he rose from his seat in a ' i'i'v\ sing ex- 
citement ; " hopes blighted, neaitn ruined, 
and happiness destroyed ! Look on me— 
see you one particle of what I was ! Yet 
is the change without, in no comparison 
with that which is within. My whole na- 
ture is blasted, riven and torn up by the 
roots. Not a green leaf shall you find on 
it, search where you will. Not a sign of 
any goodness whatsoever. An earthquake 
hath trampled on me — a pestilence hath 
eaten up all the pure essence of my being — 
what is human of me is stifled, poisoned, 
crushed, and cast otit of all likeness with 
humanity. I am a moving desolation — a 
living desert — a well that the scorching air 
hath left dry as a stone." 

John Shakspeare looked on and listened^ 
quite forgetful of his own wretchedness. 

" See you that spider in the crack ??' in- 
quired Master Combe, suddenly taking the 
other by the arm. 

" Ay, I see it plain," replied he, looking 
narrowly to the spot pointed out. 

" He is spinning his web in the ruin 
around him," continued his companion, as 
if in some sort of exultation. " He means 
to make prey of all he can. John Shaks- 
peare, I am intent upon a like thing," added 
he, sinking las voice to a mere whisper 



86 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



u Take heed of yourself, else you will find 
yourself in my snare. To the door with 
what speed you have." 

John Shakspeare, so moved he scarce knew 
what he was about, took up his cap ; hut, 
finding it feel unusually heavy, looked in it 
with some narrowness, and there, to his 
great surprise, saw a purse of money. 

" How came this here ?" exclaimed he, 
taking it in his hand. " As I live, there 
was nought of the kind in my cap a moment 
since, when I laid it down." 

" How should I know, i'faith ?" cried 
Master Combe, sharply. 

" It must needs belong to you, worthy sir, 
for it cannot be mine," said his companion, 
seeking to give him the purse. 

" Marry, what new folly is this !" exclaim- 
ed the other, putting it away. " Dost think 
I would give thee such? Doth usurers 
pan with their money after such fashion ? 
Fanciest I would allow of thy spreading the 
rare intelligence amongst thy acquaintance, 
that John a Cornbe is as monstrous a fool as 
ever he was, and liketh nought so well as 
helping some one in his need ? Go get thee 
gone, John Shakspeare," added he, pushing 
his companion to the door, " thou art honest, 
and must needs be a fool — thou hast no lack 
o; •. utue, therefore cannot escape being 
to.At;ii for a knave ;" and in the next moment 
the door was closed upon him. 



CHAPTER XII. 

Over my altars hath he hung his lance, 

His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest, 
And for my sake hath learned to sport and dance, 

To coy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest.' 
Shakspeare. ■ 
Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy shaft, 

Each little touch will pierce a heart ; 
Alas ! thou know'st not Cupid's craft, 

Revenge is joy, the end is smart. 

Davison. 
Bat what on earth can long abide in state ? 
Or who can him assure of happy day ? 
Sith morning fair may biing ioul evening" late, 
And least mishap the most blessed alter may ? 
For thousand perils lie in close await, 
About us daily to work our decay, 
That none except a god, or God him guide, 
May them avoid or remedy provide. 

Spenser. 

"I think it exceeding improper of thee, 
Mabel !" exclaimed Dame Lucy, with a 
countenance of more than ordinary gravity, 
whilst she walked in the gr< unds appertain- 



ing to her husband's mansion at Charlcote^ 
in all her pride of farthingale and headtire. 

" What else could I do, I pray you, dear 
mistress ?" said the fair creature in a de- 
precating tone, following of her closely.. 
" These good gentlemen would needs speak 
with me, and surely there was no offence in 
their speech." 

" O, monstrous offence ! beyond all doubt- 
ing," replied the dame. " Thou canst have 
no conception, child, what offence may be 
in speech without it being visible. There 
are meaning in words that are horrible to 
think of, albeit they appear of ever such in- 
nocency." 

" I took it but as a mere greeting," added 
her companion, in some surprise at what 
had fallen from the other. " They were 
infinitely kind in their inquiries ; and so 
courteous withal, it is hard to believe any- 
thing uncivil of them. 

" Trust not to such kindness," said her 
mistress somewhat oracularly, " 'tis a poor 
stale to catch woodcocks. I marvel what 
such fine fellows should want of so poor a 
person ! No good, by my fay ! Doubtless, 
would they seek to fill thee with foolish fan- 
tasies improper for thy humbie station, and 
so turn it to their advantages. But me- 
thinks I haye given them a right proper re- 
ception. I showed them such dignity of 
behavior as proved how little I thought of 
them and their fine words. They will not 
come here again, I'll warrant." 

" Dost not think, dear mistress, 'twas 
marvellous good of them to rescue me from 
the hands of those rude persons who were 
for taking me away, I know not where, 
whilst we were at Kenilworth ?" 

" Nay, o' my life, I know not," replied the 
dame, " I cannot speak of that of which I 
have no certain knowledge. Perchance, if 
the truth should be come at, more mischief 
would be found in those who stayed thee, 
than in those who were for carrying thee 
oft*. I liked not their looks. They have a 
horrible suspicious appearance with them." 

" I saw it not, believe me," said her young 
companion. " Indeed they did appear to 
me the noblest, kindest, honorablest young 
gentlemen, it hatli ever been my good hap 
to meet." 

" Tilly vally, stuff o'nonsense, child !" 
exclaimed Dame Lucy, with some sharp- 
ness. " Marry, how shouldst know aught 
concerning of honorable young gentlemen ; 
and what dost want with such ? Prithee 
hold thy silly prate. Thou wilt have enough 
to do to get thy bread with an honest name 
without troubling thyself with any such im- 
proper matters. Honorable young gentle 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



87 



men, forsooth ! The world mnst be clean 
topsy turvy when persons of thy quality take 
to such notions." # 

The poor foundling was silenced, and the 
two continued their walk without ever a 
word more ; yet though her tongue was at 
resi, her thoughts were right busy. Obedi- 
ent as she was, and yielding as was her 
nature, nothing of what her companion had 
6aid, had convinced her, the handsome gal- 
lants who had so bravely rescued her from 
she knew not what peril, and that, after so 
long a time — hearing where she lived, had 
gone on purpose to inquire how she had 
fared- after her great alarm — had treated her 
with such extreme courteousness, were any- 
thing but truly noble gentlemen, who meant 
her well. Doubtle/s it was something new 
to her to be treated with delicate respect by 
persons of quality, as they appeared ; for 
she was only regarded as a servant, and only 
aisociated with such, save at those times 
she was attending of her mistress ; therefore 
the impression they made upon her might 
have been the more powerful than could 
have been produced under ordinary circum-. 
Biances. Women in general, and especially 
of the younger sort, who have been used to 
\rs meanly thought of, are wonderfully grate- 
ful for any slight courtesy from a superior, 
and are ready to give all their hearts for 
auch attentions, should they believe them to 
be sincere ; and Mabel, whose gentle nature 
was overflowing with gratitude at any kind- 
ness, took, at the most liberal appreciation, 
«he attentions of the two young knights. 

Certes Mabel continued to think very 
kindly of Sir Valentine and his friend, and 
was famously glad she had met with thera 
again ; for ever since she had first formed 
their acquaintance, she had wished she 
might see them once more, and now she had 
a second time beheld them, she hoped it 
might chance they would again meet. She 
thought not one whit more of one than of 
the other ; she felt she should desire to be 
well esteemed of both. In accordance with 
such feelings, whenever she could get away 
from the old dame for a walk by herself, 
she would direct her steps towards the spot 
where she had last met her brave deliverers. 
Mayhap it was chance which led her that 
way ; but as it occurred every time she was 
for a stroll in the park, methinks it was of 
that order of chances which savor marvel- 
lously of design. But it so happened these 
walks of her's ended as they commenced. 
She met not those whose company she de- 
sired, and she began to think such great 
pleasure could never be hers again. 

Some months after the interview to which ' 
6 



allusion hath just been made, she was re- 
turning homewards from her ordinary ram- 
ble, somewhat out of heart at her many 
disappointments, when, to her wonderful 
great exultation, she suddenly espied Sir 
Valentine wending his way towards her 
through the trees. The young knight made 
his greeting with all the courtesy of a true 
soldier, gazing with most admiring glances 
on the fair creature before him, who, to his 
thinking, had grown to be infinitely more 
beautiful ev.en than when he had last had 
sight of her;. but the truth was, she was 
now all smiles, gladness, and animation — 
happiness was beaming in her sunny 
glances, and pleasure basked in the soft 
hollows of her radiant cheek. Such sweet 
simplicity, such genuine truth, — so artless 
and unworldly a nature Sir Valentine had 
had no knowledge of ; and he, whose truly 
chivalrous disposition was so ready to take 
on trust the admirable qualities of woman, 
could not fail to appreciate such excellences 
as he had now held in his personal ac- 
quaintance. He looked as though he could 
never tire of such exquisite company. His 
handsome smiling features spoke what ab- 
solute satisfaction he was . then and there 
enjoying ; and the longer he stayed in her 
bewitching presence, the less inclined ap- 
peared he to take himself away from it. 

As for Mabel, nought in this world could 
equal the exceeding pleasantness she ex- 
perienced in listening to her companion's 
soft mellow voice and polished delivery, de- 
scribing to her such of the princely pleasures 
of Kenilworth she had not beheld. She en- 
tirely forgot she was a poor despised found- 
ling, and in her fantasy accompanied her 
eloquent companion through all the glorious 
pageantries, noble banquets, and courtly 
recreations, that were enjoyed by the noble 
company at the castle, as though they had 
been her customary and most familiar pas- 
time's, from the beginning of her earliest 
remembrances. I question she would have 
been as properly entertained with the reality 
of what she heard, as was she with their 
mere narration ; but when the narrator di- 
gressed from his subject in any manner, to 
express, with winning civilness, his great 
comfort at having been so fortunate, r as to 
have made her acquaintance — which* he 
thought more of than could be a thousand 
Kenilworths — a thrill of exquisite rapture 
seemed to pass through her whole nature, 
and she would return her thanks for such, 
estimation with a heartiness that showed 
clearly whence it proceeded. This continu- 
ed as they remained strolling carelessly along 
under those shady trees, without taking the 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



slightest heed of time, till the thickening 
shadows gave them warning how long they 
had dallied with the hours. Then some sign 
of separation became manifest. 

" Let me beg one favor at your hands, 
ere I depart from your sweet presence," 
said Sir Valentine, as he was still lingering 
by her side near the park gate. 

" In truth, good sir, I would grant you 
anything in my poor power," answered his 
fair companion. 

" It is but to know your name," added he. 

" O' my word now, good sir, have you not 
known it all this time ?" inquired she, as if 
in some little surprise. " Surely I am no 
other than Mabel, of whom all persons, me- 
thinks, have some knowledge." 

"Mabel!" repeated the young knight, 
somewhat to himself as it were, yet all the 
time gazing on the ingenuous countenance 
of his fair partner, as though he was conning 
it for some pleasant task, — then added, with 
a deep expression in the words, " I will not 
forget it." 

" But I pray you, give me knowledge of 
your name!" exclaimed Mabel, with a most 
pressing earnestness, " an' you think it not 
over bold in me to ask such a thing of you ; 
for in very truth, I should be exceeding glad 
to know it." 

" i am called Valentine de Largesse," re- 
plied he, charmed with the exquisite fashion 
in which the question had been put to him. 

" How good a creature !" said the gentle 
girl to herself, as she was returning home 
after he had left her. " Valentine de Lar- 
gesse ? 'Tis a name that meaneth all 
honorableness and true valor, I will be 
bound for't:" 

How strange of Dame Lucy to think there 
could be evil intent in any such ! 

This was not the only meeting they had 
under those shady trees. Sir Valentine was 
too well pleased with his last interview not 
to desire to repeat his visit, and in conse- 
quence of his friend Sir Reginald being ab- 
sent in a distant part of the country, he had 
such leisure as enabled him, when all other 
circumstances concurred, to realise his own 
wishes as often as he would. His behavior 
began imperceptibly to take upon it the cha- 
racter of that tender gallantry, with which 
it was customary among the more chivalrous 
Sort of gentlemen, to address their sovereign 
lady. His homage knew no bounds— his 
respect was equally without limits, and his 
admiration, though the powerfulest of the 
three, was of that choice sort which is 
shown more in delicate actions than in a 
fair commodity of terms. These attentions 
gave the gentle Mabel a pride in herself she 



had never experienced before, whicn in- 
creased as she grew more familiar with 
them. As it made progress did her simpli- 
city diminish ; and she presently took such 
things, albeit they had once been so new to 
her, as if they were what she looked for, 
and was properly entitled to receive. 

Yet did this pride sit upon her as grace* 
fully as it might upon the noblest lady in 
the land. When at her humble duties, she 
was no more to all appearance than a poor 
foundling ; but after tiring of herself with 
such genuine taste as to make her poor ap- 
parel look more becomingly on her, than re- 
gal garments would on many others, she 
stood by the side of Sir Valentine receiving 
his devotions, with so courtly an air as made 
her seem quite another creature. Her step 
was firm, her brow erect, her carriage state* 
ly, and her look spoke of such proud happi- 
ness as a noble maiden might experience in 
attracting to herself the exclusive attentions 
of some princely gallant. At such times it 
was evident she had lost all knowledge of 
her humble fortunes. Indeed her behavior 
was of such a sort her companion not only 
had not the slightest suspicion she was of 
so low a station- — but he more and more 
marvelled such unmannerly strange persons 
as Sir Thomas and Dame Lucy appeared to 
him — could have so noble a daughter. Ma- 
bel never gave the matter a thought, else, 
had she suspected any such thing, her inge- 
nuous nature would have led her to unde- 
ceive him on the instant. She was gratified 
with his company out of all doubt, but she 
saw nothing beyond the present moment ; 
and although these meetings were clandes- 
tine, and, as she had good reason for believ- 
ing, against the consent of the old knight 
and his lady, as there appeared no offence 
in what she did, she could not see she had 
done any. 

It was her good fortune during all this 
time to escape suspicion at home — for her 
well-disposedness was so familiar to them 
that her conduct was never inquired into, 
and as her great trouble and annoyance, 
young Lucy, was at college, she was in the 
enjoyment of more happiness than she had 
known her whole life long. Pity such feli 
city should be of such short endurance. But 
so is it ever. — Nothing is certain save un- 
certainty, which showeth its troublesome- 
ness just at those times we are least pre- 
pared to put up with it. Often and often is 
it we see in the sweet spring-time of the 
year, a goodly tree almost hid beneath its 
innumerable fair blossoms, giving such prodi- 
gal promise of fruit as maketh the owner'g 
heart leap with joy — a frost cometh in the 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



89 



Bight, the blossoms are nipped, shrivelled, 
and cast off, and the tree remaineth with 
nothing but barren branches for all that sea- 
son. Methinks the knowledge of this should 
keep the sanguine from too steadfast an ex- 
pectation ; but what availeth all knowledge 
against disposition ? — a score of times shall 
such meet with the terriblest disappoint- 
ments, and the next day shall find them hop- 
ing, trusting, and anticipating, with greater 
earnestness than ever. This, however, 
could not be said of Mabel, for she antici- 
pated nothing ; and, as hath been said, 
looked only upon the present moment She 
was scarce of an age to trouble herself 
much about the future, and the extreme hu- 
mility of her fortunes kept her from any- 
thing that savored of ambition. This inno- 
cency of her heart was her best buckler in 
this apparent lack of foresight. Proud she 
was it cannot be denied, but hers was the 
pure essence of pride, and not the dross. 

As she was returning from her usual 
stroll, though without meeting with her 
usual gratification, she came upon a sight 
which fixed her attention so profoundly she 
could not stir from the place. It was in the 
pleasant twilight of the first month of au- 
tumn when the heated air fanned by the 
seasonable breeze was growing to a pleasant 
coolness, and the rustling groves were don- 
ning their embroidered livery. Over head 
was all of a clear grey save in the west a 
rich copper hue was visible at the verge, 
gradually fading till it took the color of the 
surrounding sky. The herbage was crisp 
and short, and the flowers had got to be of 
some rareness. Low upon the mossy lap 
of the venerablest oak in the whole grove, 
lay a youth in the most absolute perfection 
of youthful symmetry. Surely he might 
without any great stretch of fancy, have 
been taken for that lovely boy who playeth 
6uch vagaries with our humanity, as poets 
feign ; and she, who crept to him on tiptoe 
with such a marvelling, pleased, and cautious 
look upon her exquisite fair features, would 
have made an admirable representative of 
that divine creature the spiritual Psyche of 
the same ideal world. He slept — one arm 
supporting his head from which the hat 
had fallen, the other holding an open book. 
And who could this be but the youthful 
Shakspeare wearied out with the long deep 
studiousness he now, more than ever in- 
dulged in. She however had no knowledge 
of who it was, but could not help gazing 
with a pleasant wonder upon the pale 
thoughtful brow, and delicately beautiful 
countenance of the young sleeper. 
All at once the expression of her features 



changed exceedingly. She now looked all 
fear and terrible anxiety. The cause of 
this was she beheld a hornet hovering over 
his face, seeming every moment as if it 
would alight on the half closed lips, whose 
luscious richness of color doubtless tempted 
it thereto. Mabel was in an agony of dread 
that the touch of the insect would cause the 
young student to start, and so he would get 
stung : and she dared not seek to wake him 
from a like fear. So there stood she, bend- 
ing with extreme anxiousness, and anon 
shrinking back with horrible affright. This 
continued for some moments, with increasing 
alarm on her part, when with such a lively 
sense of joy as had visited her but seldom, 
she beheld the hornet take its departure 
without doing of any mischief. She lingered 
a moment longer, half inclined to wake the 
sleeper, and tell him of his danger, but as 
she could not bring upon herself to break 
such sweet slumbers as he appeared to en- 
joy, she presently turned away and contin- 
ued her walk. 

She knew not all this while that she was 
narrowly watched by two persons, who, 
creeping from tree to tree with such cau- 
tiousness as might prevent their approach be- 
ing noticed, followed her closely as she went. 
" 'Tis her !" whispered one, drawing 
close to the other. 

" Let her get to the next clump of trees, 
and then upon," answered the other, in the 
same low voice. They then separated 
again, and crept along as before till they 
had passed the sleeper some paces, and 
were rapidly but cautiously advancing upon 
the objeet of their so much regard, when 
Mabel turning round to take a last glance 
at the sleeping student, to her monstrous 
surprise and alarm, found two strange men 
close upon her foot-steps. 

. " I pray you come with us, sweet dam- 
sel," said one of them, whom she immedi- 
ately recognized as her treacherous gallant 
at Kenilworth. " We will do you no sort 
of harm should you come quietly — for we 
are of your friends, anxious to lead you to 
such great good fortune as falleth to the lot 
of few. But if you show any unwilling- 
ness," added he, seizing her firmly by the 
wrist, seeing she evinced an evident reluc- 
tance to be of his company — " Or make any 
outcry, we shall be forced to use such means 
to compel you, as you would find of the 
roughest." 

" Unhand me, sirrah !" cried Mabel, in- 
dignantly, striving to free her from his hold. 
" I have seen enough of you to wish for no 
farther acquaintance, and will go with voa 
on no account." 



90 



THE YOUTH OF SHAESPEARE. 



u Then we must e'en take to making you, 
Bweetest," replied be, catching her up in his 
arms, as though he would carry her away, 
which set her to screaming and struggling 
with all her might. At this moment, awaken- 
ed by the scream, the youthful' Shakspeare 
started from his sleep, and to his extreme 
consternation beheld the fair object of his 
most pleasant dream borne away from him, 
struggling in the arms of some rude villain. 

" Hold, caitiff, on thy life 1" shouted he, 
starting after them, with such speed of foot 
as soon brought them within his reach, but 
just as he had bravely seized the ravisher 
by the collar of his doublet, he was felled to 
the earth by a blow from a heavy riding 
whip the other villain had with him. The 
two then made what haste they could with 
their burthen, despite her cries and resist- 
ance, till they camo to their horses under 
some adjoining trees. The gallant got on 
one holding Mabel before him, then when 
his companion was mounted, both rode 
across the country, at a pace which speedily 
took them out of sight of that neighborhood. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

O fortune, now my wounds redress, 

And help me from my smart, 
It cometh well of gentleness, 
To ease a mourning hearte. 

Old Sons. 
Away with these self-loving lads, 
Whom with cupid's arrow never glads ! 
Away poor souls that sigh and weep 
In love of those that lie asleep .' 
For Cupid is a merry god, 
And forceth none to kiss- the rod. 

Lord Brooke. 

These strange and sudden injuries- have fallen 

So thick upon me, that I lose all sense 

Of what they are. Methinks I am not wronged ; 

Nor is it aught, if from the censuring world 

I can but hide it. Reputation ! 

Thou art a wo'd, no more. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

On recovering consciousness, the youth- 
ful Shakspeare found himself lying stretched 
on the grass, with a confused sense of pain 
and sickness, which prevented him from 
forming any distinct idea of where he was. 
He could just discern divers black masses of 
sundry shapes, moving around and about 
him, whilst above, myriads of stars were 
twinkling upon the surface of the surround- 
ing sky ; a thick white haze floated over the 
grassy earth as far as he could see ; and 
not a sound, save the rustling of the leaves, 



— which at first came upon his ear with a 
most unnatural strangeness — could be heard. 
His earliest perception was that the ground 
was wet with the dews, and he almost im- 
mediately afterwards discovered that his 
clothes were saturated with the same mois- 
ture. This made him make an immediate 
attempt to rise, whereupon he felt that his 
limbs were stiff and aching. Sitting, sup* 
porting himself by one arm, he strove to as 
certain where he was ; but everything upon 
which he turned his eyes floated in such 
shadowy outline he could distinguish no- 
thing ; and so fearful a pain was in his 
head, he was forced to lean it upon his hand 
as he rested his elbow on his lap. He then 
found his brows covered with a clammy 
moisture, which stuck to his palm with a 
peculiar unpleasantness, and an overpower- 
ing sense of sickness prevented him from 
attempting to regain his feet. In this posi- 
tion, and with these sensations, he remained 
for some time. 

Nature appeared in the rising dews be- 
neath the starry canopy, like to some mighty 
empress lying in her shroud under a jeweled 
pall ; but this awful magnificence was now 
lost upon him, who at any other time woidd 
have seen and felt it more thoroughly than 
could any other. In his present state she 
might have put on herself her proudest 
apparelling, and he would have paid no mora 
heed to it than if he had had no foreknow- 
ledge of her visible existence ; and for th& 
time being, in his comprehension not only 
all this glorious garnishing in which he had 
oft taken such exquisite delight, was utterly 
done away with, but that absolute and un- 
rivaled Beauty, whose infinite attractions so 
set off, had bound his spirit to her will, 
seemed to have suffered a perfect dissolu- 
tion into the elements from which she 
sprung ; and had at once become a darkness 
— a chaos — and a nothing. This, however, 
as must be manifest to all, was a mere fan- 
tasy. The chaos lay in the mind, and not 
in Nature; who, however funereally she 
may choose to array herself, hath a per- 
petual life, that cannot be made the property 
either of Time or Death. All the singular 
fine faculties and curious conceptions of the 
young student, in the state of half-con- 
sciousness in which he now existed, were 
as if they had never been ; and in intelli- 
gence — alack that there should be so hu- 
miliating a truth, — a sudden visitation of 
physical pain had reduced the promising 
scholar below the level of the most unlettered 
hind. 

At last he managed to raise himself upon 
his feet, and leaned against the trunk of a 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



91 



tree close by which he had fallen. He 
looked around, and it appeared as though 
everything wore an unfamiliar and unfriend- 
ly countenance ; helpless and faint with 
pain, he turned his appealing gaze to those 
fair ministers on high, who at such num- 
berless occasions, had looked down so invit- 
ingly on his meditations ; but they seemed 
at this present to regard him with a cold in- 
difference which struck a chill to his heart. 
He felt weaker and weaker every moment ; 
the mists appeared to be thickening around 
him so that he could scarce breathe ; the 
tree passed away from his touch; the 
ground slipped from under his feet ; and 
with a look of anguish that was a most deep 
reproach unto Nature for having so aban- 
doned him in his extremity, he again fell out 
»f all sign of existence. 

At this moment, lights were seen in the 
distance, and a confused shouting of men 
and barking of dogs was plainly audible. 
Amid this the name of Mabel might be dis- 
tinguished, called out by several different 
voices, and other cries, which proved that 
the party were in search of the poor found- 
ling. 

"Mabel!" shouted Sir Thomas Lucy, 
some yards off, as loud as he could for the 
wrapper his careful dame had put around 
his throat to protect him from the damp mist. 
** Murrain on the wench, what hath become 
of her I wonder." 

" Hoy !" bawled out a stout old game- 
keeper for the space of nigh half a minute, 
carrying of a lantern, which great cry of his 
brought on such a fit of coughing there 
6eemed to be no end of it. 

" Prithee wiien we return, good Sampson, 
ask some of my julep of me," said Dame 
Lucy, who prided herself hugely on her skill 
in medicaments, and was ever as anxious to 
lay hold of a patient as was any 'pothecary in 
the land ; " 'tis famous for the cure of all 
manner of coughs, asthmatics, quinsies, cold, 
hoarseness, and other diseases of the like 
sort, — so if thou wilt take it steadily it can- 
not help to be a sovereign remedy for" thy 
asthma." 

" Ay, mistress, an' it please you," replied 
Sampson, although he knew full well the 
virtues of that same julep, having had it put 
upon him for a good score years, let him 
have whatever complaint he might. 

" A fig for such villainous stuff!" ex- 
claimed Sir Thomas ; " I'll cure thy asth- 
matics, I'll warrant ! When I was at 
college, I. was as famous for my studies in 
medicine as was any physician of them all. 
Indeed I got me the name of little Escula- 
pius, I had acquired such great cunning in 



it. There was no such cures ever Heard of 
as I have made. But it led me so into the 
playing of tricks, that I was obliged to give 
it up or I should have been expelled for my 
many mischiefs. Oh, the love powders I 
have made that distressed damsels came to 
me for ! Oh, the wonderful charmed phi. 
tres, and magical elixirs, I have given them 
for bringing back their stray lovers. By 
cock and pye, I tickled them so with my 
stuff, that if a man of any kind, whatever he 
might lack in handsomeness, did but show 
himself in the High Street, women of all 
ages, sorts, and conditions, rushed from 
every house with a monstrous uncontrollable 
eagerness, intent upon the having him 
whether he would or no." 

" By'r lady, I never heard this before, Sir 
Thomas !" cried his dame, in some surprise, 
yet in the fullest conviction here was an- 
other wonderful proof of her husband's ex- 
traordinary rare wisdom. " Believe me, 
had I known of it, I would have asked your 
advice numberless times when I have not." 

" Mabel !" shouted the knight again, and 
again Sampson set up a prolonged cry, and 
half choked himself in the midst of it, and 
two dogs they had with them recommenced 
barking, as if they thought their voices 
stood as good a chance of being recognized 
by their kind friend, the poor foundling, as 
any. 

" Plague on't !" exclaimed Sir Thomas ; 
" T am nigh hoarse with bawling ; and de- 
spite of our mufflers and other covering, I 
doubt not we shall have terrible colds from 
wandering about here when the dew is so 
thick." 

" Ay, Master Justice," observed the game- 
keeper, scarce ceasing one minute to give 
evidence this coming out agreed not with 
his asthma. 

" I marvel she should serve us this way," 
added the knight, after another call from 
him, another broken-winded cry from his 
man, and another famous howl from the two 
dogs, with as little success as had attended 
them all along ; " I hope no harm hath come 
to her." 

" By my troth a thought strikes me !" 
cried Dame Lucy, suddenly coming to a 
full stop in her walk, to the exceeding as- 
tonishment of the justice and his man. 

" Marry, I hope 'twill strike thee hard 
enough to tell us what 'tis about, dame," 
said her husband merrily. 

" Doubtless that pestilent fine fellow hath 
run away with her," added she, as if horror- 
struck at the idea. 

" Ey, who ? What fine fellow ?" ex- 
claimed the knight, rapidly ; " run away 



93 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



with a servant of a justice o' the peace ! 
'Slight ! 'tis as heinous a matter as sheep- 
stealing ! But who's the villain? 'Fore 
George ; if he be a low person, he shall 
swing for't ; and if he be one of any sort of 
quality, I'll make a Star-Chamber matter 
on't. I will be no rearer of coneys for other 
men's catching, I promise you." And there- 
upon he thumped the ground -with the end 
of his stick a most determined blow. 

Nay, good heart, be not in so deadly a 
passion," cried the good dame, earnestly. 

"Passion!" bawled the justice, in a 
louder voice, and seemingly in an increased 
rage. " Wounds ! but methinks here is 
fine occasion for it. It is but fitting I should 
be in a passion — in a horrible, tearing pas- 
sion, at such a villainous affront as this. 
O' my life, I should be monstrous glad now 
to do some deadly mischief." And at this 
he pulled his rapier a little out of the sheath, 
and then sent it back with a whang that 
sounded fearfully to his alarmed wife, and 
astonished game-keeper. 

" I pray you, take not on so murderously, 
Sir Thomas," cried the good dame. 

" Valor o' me ! tell me this caitiff on the 
instant !" exclaimed the knight, in a voice 
that appeared to admit of no dallying. 

" He was one of those who made them- 
selves so busy with Mabel whilst we were 
at Kenilworth," replied the old lady, trem- 
blingly ; " but he cannot be a fit object for 
the receiving of your just indignation." 

" Ha ! Is it so ?" cried Sir Thomas, in 
no way abating the terribleness of his anger. 
" O' my word, I did suspect them of no good. 
'Twas a trick I'll wager my life on't — a 
cozening trick to get them into my good- 
will ; but I go not so easily into a trap, I 
promise you. I saw the bait, and did ima- 
gine the mischief on the instant. How 
dost feel so certain one of them hath carried 
off our Mabel?" asked he, and at this 
the good dame up and told, how one day 
she was walking with Mabel in the park, 
and they were accosted by these same fine 
fellows with a marvellous show of delicate 
behavior ; but she, giving them instant proof 
she was not to be deceived by their crafti 
ness, they departed from her presence with 
more speed than they had come in it. Then 
the knight became more brave in his speech 
than ever, and was talking very largely how 
he would have driven them both out of his 
grounds at the very point of his rapier, had 
he been in her company at that time, when 
his attention was suddenly diverted from the 
subject in hand, by a strange barking of the 
dogs a litt'e in advance of them. Sampson 



made haste to the spot, with his lantern to 
see what it meant. 

"Perchance the dogs have found her," 
observed Dame Lucy; and it may be she 
hath been taken with a fit, or sudden swoon- 
ing, and so could get no further." 

" Murder !" cried Sampson as loud as he 
could, upon catching a glance, by aid of the 
light he carried, of what appeared to be a 
dead body. 

" Oh, the poor wench !" exclaimed the good 
dame in very doleful accents. 

" What dost say, knave ?" inquired the 
knight, in somewhat of a trepidation. 

" Here's a horrid mangle !" bawled the 
serving-man, gazing with real terror on the 
blood-stained face of the youthful Shak- 
speare. 

" Thou shalt not go, Sir Thomas !" cried 
his dame in a nervous apprehension, cling- 
ing tightly to his arm. "Perchance the 
murderers may not be far away. Keep 
down thy valor, dear heart, I prithee ! Nay 
sweet life, thou shalt go on no account ! 
Thy brave spirit will lead thee to some hurt 
— thou hast no occasion to be so exceeding 
valiant. Remember, chuck ! thou art get- 
ting to be old, and no fit match, for I know 
not how many monstrous horrible cut-throat 
villains who may be lurking about." 

" Shall a justice o' the peace stand play- 
ing of mum-chance, when murder stalks 
abroad ?" exclaimed Sir Thomas, who, be- 
lieving that the supposed villains must by 
this have got them to some place of safety, 
had drawn his rapier, and was advancing 
with a marvellous show of resolution as fast 
as Dame Lucy would allow him. " Must 
Sir Thomas Lucy, knight of the shire, and 
late sheriff of the county, hide his valor, 
when deadly mischief is doing on his own 
land 1 ? Dame ! dame ! I will not be hinder- 
ed ; I feel as full of fight as a drawn badger 
— my valor must spend itself. Where are 
the monstrous pitiful caitiffs that have done 
this mischief ? 'Fore George ! I will slay 
them every man !" 

" Hodge ! Anthony ! David !" cried his 
dame urgently to divers of the serving-men 
and keepers who were at a little distance 
behind. " Help me hold thy master. Here 
is a foul murder done upon poor Mabel, and 
he is so moved, he must needs be attacking 
of all the murderers at once." The men 
came up in wonderful tribulation at hearing 
of the fate of the gentle foundling ; and with 
pressing entreaties to their master he woula 
not wilfully seek his own oeath. They 
sought to hold him fast ; but the more hft 
was held, the more boldly he threatened. A, 
last they all arrived at the spot where Sacaj^ 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



9,1 



son and the dogs were examining with ex- 
treme curiousness the body of our young 
scholar. 

" Ha ! how is this ?" exclaimed the knight 
in exceeding astonishment, as soon as he be- 
held the young Shakspeare, by the aid of the 
lanterns. " This is no Mabel ; this is some 
boy or another." 

" I warrant you, master, observed one of 
the men gladly, " our Mabel hath darker 
hair." 

" And she wore not jerkins of any kind," 
said another. 

" Nor trunks, that ever I saw," added a 
third. 

" 'Tis not our Mabel, out of all doubt !" 
cried Dame Lucy, gazing upon the motion- 
less body with mingled feelings of awe and 
curiousness. " I never gave her to wear any 
such clothes as these ; and such as she had 
of me for her apparelling were honest gowns 
of a sober color, with petticoats of a proper 
stuff, blue hose, and shoes of a fair strength, 
with a round hat, for every day ; and then 
for Sundays " 

" Gog's wouns ! — he lives, master !" hur- 
riedly exclaimed Sampson, who had lifted 
up the head of the supposed corpse, and feel- 
ing him move, could not forbear crying out 
— ,the which completely put a stop to the 
dame's account of her handmaid's wardrobe. 

" Mass ! he breathes, sure enough," ob- 
served Hodge ; " and that, as I have been 
told, be an excellent sign of life." 

" Nay, as I live, he openeth his eyes !" 
cried Anthony. 

* And now he be a moving of his fingers !" 
added David with a like marvelling ; and then 
all watched with a famous interest the symp- 
toms of returning consciousness in the 
wounded youth. The justice was some- 
what puzzled what to do in so strange a 
case. Here was a murdered person coming 
to life, and no sign of Mabel was to be seen 
any where. He thought it was exceeding 
suspicious ; and then believing he had given 
sufficient evidence of his valiant spirit, he 
sheathed his rapier, took his stick from one 
of the men who had picked it up on coming 
along, and leaning on it, kept considering 
how he should behave. In the meanwhile, 
William Shakspeare, with all the lanterns 
bearing upon his face, was looking upon 
those around him, greatly bewildered, yet 
beginning to have some confused ideas of 
where he was, and what brought him there. 
Nevertheless, the faces, as far as he could 
distinguish, were unfamiliar to him. He 
felt weak, and ever and anon gave a strong 
shudder, as though his blood was chilled by 
to long lying in the dew and the night air. 



" Methinkshe hath on him something of 
an ague," observed Dame Lucy. "Could we 
get him home with us, now, some of my ju- 
lep would do him famous good service, 1 
warrant you." 

" Humph !" cried Sir Thomas, gazing up- 
on the stranger with a terrible penetrating 
look, upon hearing of this hint of the good 
dame, backed by assurances of its efficacv 
from each of the serving-men. 

" An' it please you, sweet lady," said the 
youthful Shakspeare, faintly addressing 
Dame Lucy, emboldened to it by the evi- 
dence he had just heard of her considerate- 
ness for him, " I beseech you tell me am I not 
still in the park of his good worship, Sir 
Thomas Lucy ?" 

" That are you, beyond all question," re- 
plied she very courteously, for she was well 
pleased with the civilness with which the 
question had been put to her. 

" Ay, you be just upon the very middle of 
Fairmead Grove, my young master," added 
one of the men. 

" I thought I could not help being at the 
same place," observed the youth. 

" But how didst come to that place, and 
what dost do at that place at so late an 
hour ?" asked the justice, in a style that sa- 
vored wondrously of a disposition in him to 
doubt the honesty of the person he question- 
ed. Thereupon William Shakspeare, with- 
out acquainting any with the reason of his 
visit to the park, told the knight how he had 
been a witness to the carrying off of M'-ibel 
by two villains, and how when striving to 
stop one, he was felled to the earth by the 
other. 

" So !" exclaimed Sir Thomas, looking 
with more severity than ever, " Thou hast 
got a fine story ; but I doubt 'twill do thee 
any good at assize." Just as the knight 
had uttered this, the youth gave a sudden 
start upon noting for the first time his hands 
were covered with blood, which discovery, 
and the manner of his behavior at that mo- 
ment, was well observed by the justice. — 
" Ha !" cried he, " How didst get thyself so 
dabbled ? Dost tell that cozening tale to me 
when thy hands and face bear evidence thou 
hast murdered our Mabel !" 

"Murdered her!" exclaimed William, in 
extreme astonishment. " Believe me I would 
much rather have died in her rescue." 

" 1 believe thee fellow !" cried the justice, 
with extreme emphasis. " O' my life, 1 do 
believe thee to be a most notorious horrible 
villain ! But how didst get thyself in so sus- 
picious a way ? answer me that. The truth, 
fellow, the truth." 

" As for what I see on my hand," ob* 



94 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



eerred the youth, " I am as much surprised 
at it as yourself can be : but on reflection, 
methinks 'tis easy to be accounted for." 

" Is't, indeed ?" replied the knight. " Mar- 
ry, I doubt it hugely." 

" Doubtless the blow I received hath made 
a wound," continued the other. " And hold- 
ing my aching head awhile, hath brought my 
hand to the state you see." 

" Heart o' me ! here be a wound, indeed, 
master," cried Sampson, closely examining 
the head of the suspected person by the aid of 
his lantern. 

" By'r lady, and so there is !" added 
Dame Lucy. " I would he were where I 
could apply to it some of my famous julep ; 
'tis the sovereignest thing on earth for a 
o-reen wound." 

With the friendly assistance of the serv- 
ng men, with whom there was not a doubt 
remaining of his perfect innocency, William 
Shakspeare stood upon his feet, and presently 
missed the book he had been studying be- 
fore he fell asleep under the tree. The 
justice, somewhat perplexed in his notions, 
stood regarding him with a most scrutiniz- 
ing look. 

" What dost want looking about so ?" in- 
quired he. 

" A book, an' it please your worship," 
answered the other. . " A book of sweet po- 
ems I was intent upon studying, before I 
beheld her you called Mabel being carried 
away, screaming in the arms of a villain." 

"»I did kick my foot against something 
not a moment since," said Dame Lucy ; 
" Perchance that may be it." Hearing this, 
the serving men and keepers looked careful- 
ly about with their lanterns. 

" Thou saidst nought about her screaming 
just now," observed the justice sternly, upon 
whom this addition came with a very mar- 
vellous suspiciousness. "But tell us who 
thou are — they name, fellow — they name ?" 

" My name is William Shakspeare," an- 
swered the youth. 

" What, John Shakspeare's son, of Strat- 
ford ?" asked Sir Thomas quickly. 

" The same, an' it please your worship." 

" Then 'tis clear — 'tis mani|est — 'tis most 
absolute and undeniable, fellow !" exclaimed 
the justice, with a severity greater than all 
he had yet shown. " Mass, I thought I could 
not suspect thee without warrantable assur- 
ance. Thy name proves it. If thou hast 
not committed this foul murder, I will be 
sworn an ass all the rest of my days. Thou 
hast a most discreditable name, fellow. I 
know not a name of such ill repute that can 
be found anywhere. 'Tis a bad name ; and 
being a bad name must needs be an ill name ; 



and being an ill name cannot help being a 
name that a man shall chance to go to the 
hangman with." 

" Here's the book, sure enough," cried one 
of the serving-men. 

" Book me no books," said the knight 
sharply, whose remembrance of what had 
been told him by Master Buzzard, made him 
careless of this new proof of the youth's in- 
nocence. " Take him away ! I will look 
into this matter with more strictness. God's 
precious, so notorious a name no man ever 
had ! But let me examine the same book of 
which he hath spoken so confidently." Hav- 
ing got it in his hand," the justice had a lan- 
tern held to him and scrutinized it very nar- 
rowly. 

" Ha 1 O' my life I thought as much !' 
added he, looking from the book to the sup- 
posed murderer. " Thou hast stolen it. Here 
is in it the name of Sir Marmaduke de Lar- 
gesse." 

" He lent it me, as he hath done many 
other," replied William Shakspeare. 

" He lend thee, fellow !" cried the knight 
disdainfully. " A person of his quality lend 
books to so horrible low a person as the son 
of John Shakspeare. How dost dare put so 
impudent an assertion on a justice o' the 
peace ! Mass, 'tis manifest thou art a most 
thorough villain by thy name — 'tis as clear 
thou hast stolen this book, and doubtless 
many others by thy professions — and there 
is no doubt thou hast done a foul murder by 
thy being in the neighborhood at the time 
the wench was missing, and found here un- 
der such suspicious circumstances. Bring 
him along, Sampson. Thou art my close 
prisoner. I charge thee escape on thy peril." 

Our young student, to his exceeding as- 
tonishment, found himself taken into custo- 
dy ; but to be accused of destroying that ex- 
quisite fair creature who had so long been 
the exclusive subject of his sweetest medita- 
tions, appeared to him so unnatural a thing, 
he could scarce believe it possible it could be 
thought of for a single moment. Confused 
as he was by the effects of the blow, and 
still more bewildered by the behavior of Sir 
Thomas Lucy, his apprehensions for the 
safety of the gentle Mabel completely thrust 
aside everything like fear for himself, and all 
the way to the house he did nothing but 
think of the possible dangers she might be 
exposed to in the hands of those desperate 
villains he had beheld carrying of her off*. 
When he arrived at the mansion, he was led 
up stairs into a room where there was no 
possibility of escaping; and Dame Lucy 
presently came and washed his wound, ap- 
plied to it some of her famous julep, and put 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



8fl 



on it a clean bandage, for although, as a wife, 
■he would not for a moment doubt of the 
correctness of her husband's opinion, she 
-, could not allow such an opinion, bad as it 
was, to interfere with the wounded youth's 
receiving the advantage of her skill in re- 
medies. 

It was a small chamber, with a standing 
bed in it, whereon was a fair coverlet of the 
dame's needle work. A little table, with 
materials for washing, stood close at hand, 
which had evidently been in use ; and be- 
side them were sundry towels, pieces of 
cloth for bandage, bottles, scissors, and the 
like necessary sort of things for the dress- 
ing of a wound. The dame sat, with a fa- 
mous serious aspect, in an arm chair, at the 
side of the table, fastening the bandage on 
the head of her patient, who knelt down at 
her feet. Close by the suspected murderer, 
holding- a candle, stood a comely little dam- 
•ei, whose bright eyes had gradually lost 
tint fearfulness with which she at first re- 
garded the wicked wretch she had been told 
he was. 

Watching these, at a little distance, stood 
two simple looking fellows — the one with 
a long sheepish face, surrounded with strag- 
gling lanky locks, which was Hodge ; and 
the other, with a head as round as an apple, 
of which the countenance was marked out 
of all contradiction, for it would have rivalled 
any old buckler in the number of dents it 
had ; and he was David. Each was leaning 
on a formidable looking harquebus, and be- 
side which they were armed with sword and 
dagger. 

" Dost feel any more comfort now ?" in- 
quired the good dame, as her patient stood 
up before her, immediately the dressing of 
his wound was finished. 

" Wonderful, I thank you very heartily," 
exclaimed the youth, leaning of himself 
against a chair — for he felt exceeding weak. 
" I'm glad on't," added his physician, 
carefully pouring into a cup some of her 
famous julep ; then giving the bottle to the 
black-eyed Kate, with an injunction to be 
mindful and put it down safely, she offered the 
cup and its contents to her patient. " Drink 
this, I prithee," said she, " and be assured 
'twill do thee as much efficacy taken as an 
inward medicine, as thou hast already found 
wnen used as a lotion for a wound." Wil- 
liam Shakspeare again thanked her with a 
like sincerity, and cheerfully swallowed the 
draught to the last drop. His behavior had 
already pleased her, and the alacrity with 
which he drank what she had given him, 
delighted her still more. She rose from her 
seat, ordering the handmaid to clear the 



table, and get a bowl of milk and a manchet 
for the youth's supper ; and then telling the 
two men Sir Thomas desired they left not the 
room on any account, nor once took their 
eyes Qff of their prisoner, she seemed as if 
about to take her departure. Yet still sh» 
lingered. 

" I marvel thou dost not confess thy wick- 
edness," said she, at last, to her young patient, 
manifestly more in sorrow than in anger. 
" Prithee say what thou hast done with the 
body ; for methinks the least thou canst do 
is to let her have Christian burial." 

" Whose body, dear lady ?" inquired he. 
" Why, poor Mabel, whom thou hast 
so foully murdered, answered the dame. 
" Alack ! 'tis a grievous thing one so young 
— and so well behaved too — should do so 
horrible a thing." Kate stood still a mo- 
ment, and regarded the suspected murderer 
with a wonderful searching glance. 

" I beseech you, think of me not so vilely !" 
exclaimed the youthful Shakspeare, with 
great earnestness. " By all things most 
sacred, I do assure you, I got this blow in 
endeavoring to stay the villains who carried 
her off." Kate returned to her work with a 
look of infinite satisfaction. 

" Didst not hear what Sir Thomas said ?" 
inquired the old lady, very gravely ; " and 
dost really imagine that one of thy years 
can know better of a thing than a justice 
o' the peace, and a knight o' the shire, who 
owneth lands in five counties ?" There- 
upon the good dame shook her head with a 
wonderful solemnity, and walked, in her 
stateliest manner, out of the chamber. 

" Prithee, Kate, bring us a jug of small 
ale!" exclaimed the man with the indented 
face, as he threw himself into a chair, 
directly his mistress had closed the door. 
" I'm horrible thirsty after all this fruitless 
searching for poor Mabel." 

" Body o' me, so am I, David !" said be 
with the sheepish countenance, following 
the other's example. " 1 feel as though I 
had lived on pickled herrings for a whole 
month of fast days, I be so uncommon dry. 
Come Kate, bring us a tankard." 

" Wait till thy betters be served, Hodge," 
replied the girl, quickly. David looked hard 
at Hodge, and Hodge looked hard at David ; 
and then both looked very hard at their 
prisoner. 

" I pray you, good sir, to seat yourself," 
said Kate to the latter, who still stood lean- 
ing against the back of a chair, looking 
faint and pale ; and thereupon she moved 
the chair round fer him, convenient for hia 
sitting. " Methinks you must want rest 
exceedingly." 



96 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



* I thank you," replied he, taking her prof- 
fered kindness very courteously ; I am in- 
deed somewhat weary." 

" O' my life I am monstrous sorry," ob- 
served she, regarding him with an evident 
sympathy ; " but I will make what speed I 
can with your supper, so that you shall to 
bed quickly and get you a good sleep, for 
which I doubt not you shall be much the 
better." 

" I have no stomach for anything, I thank 
you all the same," said the patient faintly. 

" Nay, but you go not to bed supperless, 
I promise you," exclaimed Kate, with one 
of her pleasantest smiles ; " such light 
victual must needs be what would do you 
most good; and I will take care it shall 
be greatly to your liking." As soon as 
she had left the room, Hodge again looked 
at David and David looked at Hodge, and 
both looked at their prisoner harder than 
before. After which the former laid his 
piece carefully on his lap, and the other 
did the same immediately ; then he of the 
well-marked countenance, stooped forward, 
poking out his chin and his lips towards 
his companion, making a sort of half- 
stifled whistling, and the owner of the 
sheep-face lost no time in following his ex- 
ample. 

" I beseech you tell me," said William 
Shakspeare, " if there exists any evidence 
other than what I have stated for suppos- 
ing the gentle Mabel hath come to any 
hurt?" At hearing of this question the 
two men looked at each other a little 
harder, and whistled a little louder than 
they had previously done. 

" I would gladly hear any intelligence of 
her safety," added he, upon finding he got 
no answer ; but these words merely pro- 
duced an accompaniment to the whistling 
in the shape of the drumming of three 
fingers of each of his guard upon the table 
before them. Observing they did not choose 
to speak, he delisted of his questions till the 
entrance of the pretty handmaid with his 
supper, of whom he inquired in a like man- 
ner, telling her also he could get no answer 
of. any kind from the persons she had left 
with him. 

"Why so churlish, I prithee !" exclaimed 
Kate as she placed close to the wounded 
youth a bowl of hot milk spiced with nutmeg 
and cinnamon, and a fair white loaf, knife 
and spoon, on a tray covered with a cloth 
that seemed to rival the milk in whiteness. 
4 Methinks 'twill do you no great harm to 
open your mouths a bit, the which you are 
ready enough to do over a full trencher." 

" The justice hath commanded that we 



have no communications with the prisoner," 
observed David with extreme seriousness. 

" And moreover hath desired that we 
speak to him at our peril," added Hodge. 

" A fig's end for the justice !" cried their 
pretty companion, to the infinite astonish- 
ment of the serving men ; " art so weak of 
conceit as to suspect this good youth of so 
improbable a thing as the killing of our 
Mabel ? Why thou hast no more brains 
than a blighted apple." Then turning to 
the supposed murderer with an increased 
kindness of manner, assured him that no- 
thing was known concerning of the missing 
person but what he had himself told, and 
pressed him urgently to partake of what she 
brought, so that he could not refuse; and 
when she had again taken herself out of the 
room David and Hodge looked at each other 
and then at their prisoner so terrible hard, 
their eyes must have ached for some niinutes 
after. William Shakspeare took no notice 
of them, although they were watching of kitm 
narrowly. All at once the two men snatched 
up their harquebusses as if they would have 
them in readiness for immediate use, and 
put all the valor they possessed into their 
looks. They had observed he had taken a 
knife into his hand, as they thought with no 
other purpose than to stab them and then 
make his escape ; but he merely used it for 
the cutting of a slice off the loaf to sop in 
his milk. This did not assure them. They 
kept their gaze on his every motion with 
extreme seriousness, save when he happen- 
ed by chance to raise his eyes from the sup- 
per he was languidly tasting, when on a 
sudden they would be diligently examining 
one or the other of their legs they were 
swinging to and fro on the chair, with as 
complete a carelessness as if they were 
thinking of nothing. 

Presently Kate returned again, bearing a 
brimming tankard, which she put down be- 
tween the two serving men. 

" I doubt hugely thou dost deserve any- 
thing of the sort," said she to them ; " thou 
showest such uncivil behavior towards this 
good youth. I would wager my life on't 
he knoweth no more of the murder than a 
child unborn." 

" But his worship declareth he doth know 
of it, Kate," observed David with more than 
ordinary solemnness. 

" And moreover hath determined 'twas 
done by this person and no other," added 
Hodge after the like fashion. 

" I care not for fifty worships," replied she 
flashing her dark eyes very prettily ; " or 
for what they say, or for what they do, when 
they show such marvellous injustice. Io" 






THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



W 



•easonable— is't natural — is't credible, one 
ot his years, with a countenance too as in- 
aocent as is a lambkin — should take to such 
rillainous courses? Why, what shallow- 
witted poor creatures must they be who 
would entertain such intolerable notions." 

The rough-featured serving-man, as she 
turned her back to approach the prisoner, 
shook his head with a very wonderful so- 
lemnity ; and then, not knowing what better 
to be at, put his mouth to the tankard, and 
whilst he drank, kept his watchful eyes 
squinting over the rim in the direction of 
the supposed murderer. After a time had 
elapsed, which his companion thought was 
considerable longer than it ought to have 
been, he handed his sheep-faced companion 
the tankard, wiping of his mouth with the 
cuff of his jerkin at the same moment, and 
looking such volumes of hidden meaning as 
t is utterly impossible to express, to which 
tie other responded by giving a hasty glance 
at the roof and then a prodigious long one 
into the tankard, to which his jaws appeared 
to be fixed with such firmness there was no 
getting of them apart. 

" Now a fair good night to you ;" ex- 
claimed the smiling little creature finding, 
with all her kind persuading, she could not 
^et him to eat more of his supper. " You 
fan go to bed as soon as you have a mind ; 
fad I hope you will enjoy an excellent sweet 
rest. Good night," repeated she, and gave 
with it so soft a glance as if she intended to 
have subdued all the manhood in his na- 
ture. 

" Good night !" replied William Shak- 
speare earnestly ; and a million of thanks 
for your great kindness." 

Directly Kate had departed, David threw 
himself back in the chair in the fullest con- 
viction, from what he had observed, that she 
entertained a design for the prisoner's es- 
cape ; and doubtless the same conclusions 
were come at by Hodge, for he put on his 
countenance much the same sort of expres- 
sion, and, seeing the supposed murderer 
rising from his seat, both his guards grasped 
their arms firmly on the instant, and started 
to their feet, manifestly suspecting he was 
about to rush upon them. This movement 
of his, however, was merely made for the 
purpose of throwing himself on the bed, 
which he soon did with the clothes on, for 
with a delicacy suitable to his years, he 
liked not undressing of himself before 
strangers. In truth, he was thoroughly ex- 
hausted by pain, anxiety, and weariness, 
and in a few minutes was in as deep a sleep 
as ever he had enjoyed in his whole life. 

The two serving men had returned to their 



seats. Both gazed upon the young student, 
and then at each other, as if they had huge 
doubts he had any intention of sleeping. In 
a short time all was as silent you might have 
heard a pin drop, which silence seemed ex- 
ceeding irksome to the guard. Each looked 
to see his weapons were in good order — each 
snuffed the candle — and each buried his 
nose in the tankard; but the prisoner re- 
mained motionless, and the silence grew all 
the greater. It was evident from a number 
of fidgetty ways they were continually exhi- 
biting, that they could not longer remain 
without some talking. 

" Methinks Sampson's niece groweth hor- 
ribly bold, Hodge ;" observed David at last 
in a low voice. 

" Ay, that does she," answered Hodge in 
a whisper. " I never heard of such extreme 
impudency in any wench." 

" Heart o' me !" said the other ; " I did 
myself hear her cry out, ' a fig for the jus- 
tice !' which seemeth to me to smack abom- 
inably of a wilful rebelling against these in 
authority." 

" Ay, David," added his companion ; " and 
as I remember, she had the infamousness to 
assert she cared not for fifty worships." 

" My hair stood on an end at hearing it," 
said David. " But I doubt not 'twill bring 
down on her some awful judgment." 

" It cannot help doing so," replied Hodge. 

"Nevertheless, we must not say aught 
against her of what we have heard," ob- 
served he of the marks. " For she has some 
lusty fellows of her acquaintance, who, per- 
chance, might not take it civil qf us." 

" Ah, that she hath!" quoth the sheepish 
looking one with a famous seriousness. 
" One of whom broke my head at the last 
May games, because I laughed when she 
slipped down, and showed somewhat more 
of her ancle than is customary." - 

" At least, we will take good heed she 
shall not assist the prisoner to escape ;" ob- 
served David. 

" I warrant you," said Hodge. Again 
there was so dead a silence it seemed to 
make their flesh creep ; and they looked on 
the sleeping youth in such a manner as 
proved they would have liked any other 
company. They turned over in their minds 
the possibility of his suddenly rising ani 
making some desperate effort at their des- 
truction, with the expectation of saving his 
own life by it ; and the more they thought of 
it, the more convinced they were it would 
be done ere they could be aware. This state 
of apprehension at last became insupportable, 
and both made a movement at the same 
moment to turn their attention to another 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



matter. David raised the tankard to his 
mouth to drown his fears in a full draught; 
and Hodge snatched up the snuffers, despe- 
rately intent on lessening the wick of the 
candle, which he had been screwing up his 
courage to do for the last half hour. Alack, 
the trepidation he was in, caused him to snuff 
it out ; and then they were in total darkness. 
To be in company with an unfettered mur- 
derer was bad enough of all conscience, but 
to be left in the dark with him was more than 
mortal courage would allow of. David 
trembled so lie could not hold the tankard, so 
down it went, and the noise it made so fright- 
ened him and his associate, that they drop- 
ped their harquebusses, and making for the 
door, rushed down stairs at the top of their 
speed, crying out, " murder !" as loud as 
they could bawl. 

About five minutes afterwards a most 
formidable armament composed of every 
male in the house armed to the teeth, some 
half dressed, and here and there a nightcap 
u) show they had been disturbed from their 
sleep, crept cautiously up the stairs. They 
gained the landing — the justice having plac- 
ed himself in the centre of his household, in 
a night-gown and slippers, a velvet cap on 
his head, a drawn sword in one hand, 
and a pistol in the other. Before him were 
Sampson the gamekeeper and two of his 
sons — all stout fellows, in foresters frocks, 
carrying loaded pieces — then came Anthony, 
David and Hodge, with drawn rapiers — the 
knight next, and after him the grooms and 
scullions with lights in one hand and some 
goodly weapon in the other. Besides which, 
from open doors were seen divers of the 
women in their night dress, taking a peep 
at what was going on, with a scarce repres- 
sible inclination for a good scream. When 
the men got near the door, upon David and 
Hodge reminding them that the murderer 
had with him two loaded harquebusses, no one 
seemed inclined to go in before his fellows. 

" How know you not he may be this very 
moment behind the door," said David in a 
terrible frightened way, that carried convic- 
tion to most of his hearers. " Nay, I do 
believe I hear him now levelling of his 
piece !" This occasioned a sudden backing 
of the armed party, and a famous scream 
from the women. The knight said nothing 
— for an indisputable reason — he had no- 
thing to say — but he felt that he had known 
the murderer had been so terrible a fellow, 
he would have been hanged ere he would 
have meddled with him. The dispute among 
the leaders still raged high. • Every one 
seemed desirous of giving his neighbor the 
hono of going first ; but not one of all that 



body but modestly declined having to do with 
any such greatness. At last the argument 
was put a stop to by the sudden appearance 
of Kate with a lighted candle in her hand. 

" What dost want, Kate ?" 

" What dost want, Uncle ?" was said at 
the same moment by the stout Sampson and 
his pretty niece. 

"The murderer is seeking to escape us •,'' 
replied Anthony. 

" Prithee get thee hence, or thou wilt be 
shot," exclaimed one of her cousins. 

" I marvel there should be such foolish- 
ness !" observed Kate ; and the next mo- 
ment, to the infinite horror and astonishment 
of the whole party, walked deliberately into 
the formidable chamber. 

" I prithee come here, uncle Sampson, if 
thou hast not lost thy wits as completely as 
the rest," added she from the interior. 
" Thou shalt see a sight as little akin to 
violence as can be seen anywhere." Samp- 
son creeped cautiously — his sons followed 
their father with the like heed — the serving 
men trod in the steps of the gamekeepers, 
Sir Thomas Lucy and the rest of his de- 
pendants, half curiousness and fear, pushed 
forward in the like direction, and the women 
with what they had hastily put on, came to 
take a peep where they could. To the great 
marvelling of all, there lay the supposed 
murderer as fast asleep as ever he could be ; 
and there lay the broken tankard ; and there 
lay the fallen harquebusses. Now who was 
so valorous as the justice ; he seemed as 
though he would have cut his cowardly 
serving-men into ribbons for having woke 
up the whole household with so fabulous a 
tale as they had told of the sudden and out- 
rageous attack upon them of their prisoner ; 
however, he contented himself with ordering 
them to stay where they were and keep 
better watch ; and then he, with the rest, 
presently retraced their steps to their severa. 
beds. 

In tne morning William Shakespeare 
woke up, marvellously refreshed by his 
night's rest, and the first objects that met 
his sight were his guards sound asleep, 
snoring loud enough to wake anybody. 
Inconceivable was the consternation of 
David and Hodge, upon opening their eyes, 
to find so dreadful a person close upon them, 
but taking of them no more heed than if they 
had been a couple of drowned puppies left in 
a dry pond. Each cautiously sought to gain 
possession of Ins fire-arms, which stood at a 
little distance from them upon neighboring 
chairs, and to their great joy this they suc- 
ceeded in doing. Our young student, in his 
turn, was in a considerable astonishment. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



when, upon turning round with his face 
dripping with water, to get to the towel, he 
encountered the fixed fearful gaze of his 
guards, whom a moment since he had beheld 
m so perfect a state of somnolency. He 
could not avoid standing looking at them for 
a few moments, there was so strange an 
expression in their countenances ; and they 
gazed as though he had such power in his 
eyes they could not turn their own aside. 
However, directly he went to the towel, and 
was rubbing himself with it, the two stared 
at each other more intently than they had 
ever done. 

He had just got himself in his cleanest 
trim, and feeling wonderfully comfortable, 
when his pretty little friend the gamekeep- 
ers niece, made her appearance with his 
breakfast, in a kinder mood than ever ; and 
he was sufficiently improved to do justice to 
her catering, even had it not been garnished 
with such winning entreaties and smiling 
looks as accompanied it. He had scarce 
made a finish of his meal when Dame Lucy 
entered, bottle in hand, and finding him so 
much better, she again washed his wound 
with her infallible juiep, and then made him 
«wallow a cup of the same, with a very visi- 
ble satisfaction, especially when he grate- 
fully ascribed his better health to her won- 
derful medicine. Th> sld dame could not 
forbear sighing at the thought of losing so 
goodly a patient, and in her own mind 
thought it monstrous pitiful one so tractable 
in the taking of medicine, should be turned 
over to so disreputable a physician as the 
nangman. 

. About an hour after this, closely escorted 
by his guards, the prisoner entered the 
justice's room. Sir Thomas sat in a high- 
backed cushioned chair, with a screen at his 
back to keep off the wind, and a table be- 
fore him to hold such papers, books, and 
utensils of writing as he needed. Jemmy 
Catchpole sat at the end of the table mend- 
ing of a pen, for he was sure to be sent for 
on all knotty cases, to advise with the jus- 
tice, and see that the law was properly 
administered. There were several persons 
— farmers and yeomen they looked to be — 
setting on a long settle at the farther end of 
the chamber, perchance on some business 
with his worship, gnawing their sticks, fidd- 
ling their hats, and staring about them, as 
men do who are kept waiting in a strange 
place, when they would rather be elsewhere. 
Sampson, the stout gamekeeper, and his two 
stout sons, with Anthony, a bull-headed, 
pig's-eyed serving-man, having remarkable 
thin legs, very much after the fashion of a 
pair of nut-crackers, and two or three stupid 



blubberly fellows of clowns, carrying staves 
in token of their being constables, stood in 
a half circle at a yard or so from the table. 
Justice leaned back in his chair, looking 
awfully solemn at Jemmy Catchpole, the 
lawyer leaned forward on his stool, gazing 
with equal solemnity at his worship ; and 
the constables, gamekeepers, and serving- 
men, stared from the ground to the ceiling, 
and from the ceiling to the ground, with a 
solemnness more awful than either. This 
was the moment of the prisoner's appearance. 

" Call William Shakespeare !" exclaimed 
Sir Thomas, as soon as he noticed that there 
was no occasion to do anything of the sort. 

" Call William Shakespeare," repeated 
the lawyer to one of the constables. 

" WilPm Shuk — spur !" hoarsely bawled 
out a short, thick, bandy-legged man, with 
a face that would have out-blushed a poppy 

The youth was just before him, and an- 
swered readily to his name. 

" William Shakespeare !" said the justice, 
in his gravest voice ; " you are brought 
before me, her Majesty's justice o' the 
peace, on a charge — that is to say, you are 
here before me accused of — yes, accused of 
and charged with — -charged with divers 
horrible offences — that is to say, criminally 
charged with, or I might say, accused of, all 
manner of misdemeanors, and with perpe- 
trating and committing divers horrible "of- 
fences against the peace of our sovereign 
lady Queen Elizabeth ; whereof the first 
against you is no less a crime than to be 
accused of, or otherwise charged with, the 
horrible offence of stealing — against the 
peace of our sovereign lady Queen Eliza- 
both, as aforesaid." 

Having made so imposing a display of 
his judicial oratory, his worship cried out— 
" Call Anthony Gosling !" Jemmy Catchpole 
repeated the command to the hoarse man 
with the bandy legs. 

" Ant'ny Gos — lin !" bawled the consta- 
ble. 

" Here !" replied a voice from the bull 
headed serving man, and the thin legs made 
two steps out of the half circle towards the 
table. 

" Swear him !" exclaimed the justice, and 
the lawyer, laying hold of a little book, 
mumbled a few sentences in a quick low 
tone, at the conclusion of which Anthony 
made a bob with his head towards the book, 
and then held up his head again very stiff, 
and looked very desperate. Just as this 
was done, an interruption appeared in the 
person of the pretty gamekeeper's niece 
who presented a letter to the justice, the 
sight of which set him making of another 



100 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



famous speech, accusing the prisoner of 
stealing sundry books belonging to Sir 
Marmaduke de Largesse ; and then putting 
forth the letter as one just received from Sir 
Marmaduke in answer to a communication 
sent that morning by himself, concerning of 
the charges against William Shakspeare, 
he bade Jemmy Catchpole read it, as it 
doubtless contained decisive evidence of the 
prisoner's guilt. Jemmy Catchpole read it 
very carefully, and the farther he read the 
more astonished was the justice, for it not 
only' contained a clear acknowledgment 
that the book had been lent by the writer to 
the prisoner, but spoke in the highest terms 
of eulogy of this identical William Shak- 
speare as a youth of admirable character, 
whom he had long known and respected, 
and begging Sir Thomas Lucy, as a partic- 
ular favor, to treat that person honorably, to 
let him retain the book which he had false- 
ly been accused of stealing, and allow him 
to return to his house immediately, on a 
horse he had sent by one of his serving-men. 
Sir Thomas would not believe his ears, 
and could scarce believe his eyes, even 
when he had himself closely examined the 
hand-writing and the seal ; but he could not 
so easily be brought to part with his prison- 
er. There was the charge of murder yet 
to be entered into ; and he was proceeding 
in his usual rambling manner to state the 
accusation, when one of the yeomen on the 
settle started up on a sudden, and stated he 
kd seen, when returning from work the 
light before, the said Mabel carried in the 
irms of a strange gallant, accompanied by a 
companion, and both were riding at so great 
a pace, they were quickly lost sight of. No 
sooner did his worship hear this statement, 
than sharply ordering Jemmy Catchpole to 
return the book to the prisoner and dismiss 
him, he stalked indignantly out of the cham- 
ber, and could not be brought to do any 
more justice business all that day. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Ah, my swete swetyng ! 
My lytyl prety swetyng, 

My swetyng wyl I love wherever I go ; 
She is so proper and pure, 
Full stedfast, stabill and demure, 
There is none such ye may be sure, 

As my swete swetyng. 

Old Sons. 

Mabel awoke in a feverish uneasy state 
the morning after her abduction, and found 



herself in a strange bed, having to it hang 
ings of the costliest description. By de- 
grees, the adventures of the preceding night 
came upon her memory. She could dis- 
tinctly remember the treacherous gallant 
of her former acquaintance, and the forbid- 
ding features of hi.- servile companion ; and 
then she had some faint remembrance of a 
courteous lady, who had assured her of her 
safety, and after a wondrous show of kind- 
ness and protection, had made her take such 
refreshment as she needed, and then con- 
ducted her, as she said, to her own chamber, 
that she might sleep with a full sense of se- 
curity. Sometime passed whilst the poor 
foundling endeavored to collect her scattered 
thoughts, to find out the reason she had been 
forcibly taken from her home. 

After wandering from one topic to another 
with no other result than to get more be- 
wildered than she was at first, she resolved 
to dress herself forthwith, believing it to be 
far beyond her usual hour for so doing ; but 
when she sought her clothes, not a vestige 
was to be seen in any part of the chamber. 
This seemed stranger than all. She re- 
membered the kind lady helping her to un- 
dress with manifold assurances of her per- 
fect safety ; and she recollected also placing 
of her things upon a chair that stood within 
a few paces of the bed ; but there was the 
chair with its tapestry cushion uncovered 
by so much as a single thread. As she was 
marvelling* at so unaccountable a disappear- 
ance, the door of her chamber opened, and 
there entered a lady of considerable attrac- 
tions, both in form and figure, yet a close 
observer might have detected, despite the 
artful bloom on her cheek, that she had pas- 
sed her youth. Her head was dressed in 
the latest Venetian tire ; an open collar of 
the newest fashion disclosed the whiteness 
of her neck, and a dress of orange tawney 
silk, fairly trimmed with the whitest lace, set 
off the proportions of her figure to the com- 
pletest advantage. She was followed by a 
female, who seemed by her dress to be a 
servant, carrying on her arm what appeared 
to be sundry articles of wearing apparel. 

Doubtless the first of these two was the kind 
lady of whom Mabel had been thinking, for 
she came smiling to the bedside, kissed the 
fair foundling with an amazing affectionate- 
ness, asked a thousand questions in a breath 
how she had fared, how she had slept, whether 
she would rise, and what she would choose 
to break her fast with ; and then scarce al- 
lowing the other opportunity to give a single 
answer, she informed her she had brought 
her servant to tire her in such apparelling 
as she had considered fittest for her weai^ 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



10) 



as the things her young friend wore were 
of far too mean a sort for a person she loved 
so dearly. Mabel was not suffered to make 
any objection. The rich beauty of her new 
attire was temptingly displayed before her 
admiring eyes, and jewels of the, fairest wa- 
ter lay dazzlingly beside it. She thought 
them a rare sight indeed ; but 'twas all in 
vain she declared them to be much too 
fine for her wearing, the kind lady would 
hear nothing of the sort, stopped her mouth 
with all sorts of endearing expressions, and 
fairly pulled her from the bed, entreating 
she would allow her sweet lovely person to 
be attired without a word more. 

As she was being dressed, she could not 
help observing the exquisite work in the ar- 
ras that surrounded the chamber, upon 
which was depicted, in the most, glowing 
colors the loves of Venus and Adonis. No- 
thing could be so beautiful she thought, 
save the carved corners of the bedstead, each 
of which represented a naked Cupid, fig- 
ured to the life, grasping the stem of a palm 
tree with one arm, holding back the silken 
curtains with the other, and looking under 
them with an expression that seemed to say 
there was in the bed something beyond con- 
ception admirable. At each corner of the 
chamber were fair statues of marble, the 
very loveliest and lovingest objects that had 
ever been produced by the sculptor's art, 
and there was scarce any one thing about 
her that did not bear on it such forms of 
beauty as are most enticing to the young 
and imaginative mind. Certes, for all such 
cunning was displayed in these figures, 
whereon whatever art could do in fashioning 
what was most graceful had been essayed, 
a piece of nature's more perfect handiwork 
there present outstripped them all. 

"O' my iife, sweetest creature! how ex- 
ceeding beautiful thou art !" exclaimed the 
lady, gazing on Mabel, as if in absolute 
wonder. 

" Dost think so, indeed !" replied the half- 
dressed beauty, blushing somewhat, to the 
great heightening of her most moving 
graces. 

"Think so ? O, thou dear rogue!" said 
. the lady in an arch way ; " wouldst have 
me believe thou knowest nothing of the mat- 
ter ! Hast never looked on those unrivalled 
features ? Hast never beheld those exquis- 
ite limbs ? Fie ! fie ! Thou canst help 
knowing it better than any, and thinking of 
it too." 

" Believe me, I have thought of it but lit- 
tle," answered the pretty foundling. 

" Nay I will believe nothing of the sort," 
responded the other : " there was never a 



woman yet that knew not her own attrac- 
tiveness, and it is said some do occasionally 
see and think more of it than other folks ; 
but that there should exist in this world a 
creature of the most ravishing loveliness 
ever beheld, who knoweth, and thinketh but 
little of her own rare perfections, is clean 
out of all credibility." 

" I assure you, it is as I have said," ob- 
served Mabel. 

"Heaven forgive thee!" exclaimed the 
lady, shaking her head, and laughing very 
prettily ; " never met I so undeniable a story 
teller, and yet coming from so fair a source, 
no truth could appear half so winningly. 
Prithee, take my word then, since thou hast 
such lack of proper acquaintance with the 
subject ; and be assured, one more semely 
featured, and gracefully limbed withal, is 
not to be met with, search the whole king- 
dom through." Then turning to the tire 
woman, whose large eyes and full rounc 
face, expressed somewhat of wantonness 
she added, " What dost think of it, Abigail T 

" An' it please you, my Lady Comfit, me- 
thinks there needs no questioning," replied 
the tirewoman, then on the floor fitting on an 
embroidered shoe, seemingly of the smallest 
size, as Mabel sat on a chair with the lady 
leaning over her. " Touching the face, if 
ever any man gazed on features so moving, 
beauty hath gone out of my knowledge ; and 
as for the person — who hath ever looked on 
so neat a foot, so delicate an ankle — or sc 
exquisite a leg as there are here ?" Mabel 
blushing deeper than ever, because of there 
being at that moment a greater display of hei 
symmetry of limb than she thought becom- 
ing, drew away her foot hastily, and rose 
from her seat. 

"Oh, the pretty rogue, how rosily she 
blushes !" exclaimed Lady Comfit, laugh- 
ingly drawing the abashed maiden towards 
a large mirror. " Now, if thou wilt not be- 
lieve other evidence, deny thyself if thou 
canst." And thereupon her companion 
pointed to the reflection. Mabel saw before 
her a form and figure such as hath been de- 
scribed, arrayed with all the choiceness 
which skill in dress could give to them, for 
she wore a velvet suit of a plum color, worn 
low, and delicately powdered with gold and 
pearl, her fair neck embraced with a neck- 
lace of blushing rubies, and jewels of greater 
rarity in her hair, ears, and stomacher. Tne 
poor inmdling could hardly believe she was 
the admirable creature she saw in all that 
bravery, and Lady Comfit and Abigail look- 
ed at each other, as if they mightily enjoy «*i 
her astonishment 

" Methinks I have never appeared eo 



103 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



comely in all my life before," observed the 
6imple girl. 

" Thou art right I doubt not," replied the 
lady, with a smile ; " but thou shalt no 
longer hide so bright a light. Come along, 
I prithee, my sweet creature. Such rare 
attractions should be rarely appreciated, or 
huge wrong would be done thee. Thou 
shalt have choice worshipping. This way, 
1 dear sweet rogue, and I will tell thee more 
anon." So saying, with her arm round the" 
Waist of the gentle Mabel, Lady Comfit en- 
tered an adjoining chamber. . 

If the humble foundling had been dazzled 
by the costly furnishing of the bed-chamber, 
how much more reason had she to be simi- 
larly influenced, when she beheld the great 
splendor of the chamber she had just enter- 
ed. The arras was more gorgeous, and on 
it was depicted, in the very richest color- 
ing, the loves of Jupiter, and others of the 
heathen deities. In one place was Danae, 
yielding her enamored nature to the golden 
shower — a type of that species of affection- 
ateness still met with in woman, that can 
be -easily procured by the like means. 
There, Leda caressing of the stately swan, 
tvhose graceful movements and fair apparel- 
ing, had so won upon her admiration — sym- 
►m'-h! of that sort of loving amongst the 
t.x. which hata no better origin than mere 
outward appearances ; and elsewhere, Eu- 
ropa, borne over the yielding waves by the 
bull, whose lustiness of limb had provoked 
her to such hardihood as lost her to her 
company — a right true picture of that sort 
of feeling in women occasionally met with, 
miscalled love, which doth so conspicuously 
savor of the mere animal. Besides these, 
were subjects out of all number of a like 
description, so movingly delineated, that it 
was scarce possible for any that gazed on 
them, not to find their dispositions softened 
into a similar tendency. 

But every object in both chambers seemed 
studiously fashioned so as to breathe of love 
— not that love which is the pure offspring 
of the affections, and can only live in the 
rare atmosphere of intellectual beauty ; but 
that more gorgeous blossom often mistaken 
for t e modest flower of the same name, — 
that springs from rank rich soils, and thrives 
best in the stifling air of luxurious indul- 
gence. Botl) apparently are warmed by the 
same sun, so are the rose and the poppy— 
and oft appear of the same glowing com- 
plexion, as shall be found in the flower and 
the weed just named ; but the one hath in 
it so sweet an essence, that ever so small a 
particle deligbteth the senses by its exqui- 
siteness, and can do harm to none — whilst 



the other secretes deadly intoxicating juices, 
which give an unnatural stimulus to those 
who take it for their enjoyment, fevers the 
blood, poisons the nature, and kills the soul. 

Lady Comfit allowed the simple girl to 
admire as much as she would, without in- 
terruption, the costly and subduing beauty 
of the several ornaments of the chamber, 
and then led her to a table prodigally gar- 
nished with all manner of spicy viands and 
stimulating wines. Meats and pasties, di- 
vided the space with glass bottles filled with 
the products of the choicest vineyards, rich 
silver cups and platters, china dishes, and 
embroidered napery. Mabel who had all 
her life eat her simple meal of cold meat 
and bread, off a wooden trencher, accompa- 
nied with a draught of small ale from a 
horn cup, looked in some amazement at 
such store of tempting delicacies displayed 
in vessels of such extreme value as here 
presented themselves for her accommoda- 
tion. Lady Comfit pressed her to name her 
choice, and she seemed so sore puzzled that 
the lady kindly recommended such dishes 
as she herself most approved of, portions of 
which the poor foundling thankfully ac- 
cepted, and found of a marvellous delectable 
flavor. 

" And now what wine dost prefer, sweet- 
est ?" inquired the lady lovingly. 

" An' it please you I would rather a cup 
of small ale," replied Mabel, at which the 
lady and her tirewoman laughed very plea- 
santly. 

" Small ale, dear heart !" exclaimed Lady 
Comfit. " Such drink is never for ladies — 
'tis fit only for serving men, and such low 
persons." 

" Then perchance, a draught of spring 
water might be had readily?" asked her 
companion, at which the other two laughed 
more pleasantly than before. 

" Water !" cried the lady at last. " I'faith 
I should be much to blame were I to let thee 
swallow such unwholesome stuff. Here is 
wine for thee, and plenty — the choicest 
withal that ever came of the grape." 

" But I am monstrous thirsty," observed 
Mabel, " and wine is of too great a strength 
for one so unused to it as am I, to quench 
their thirst with." 

" Tush, my sweet creature," replied Lady 
Comfit ; " this wine is not so strong as small 
ale, be assured of it. Is it, Abagail ?" asked 
she of her attendant. 

" 'Tis made expressly for ladies' drink- 
ing, an' it please you, my ladv," answered 
Abigail, very readily. "A child might 
drink a bottle of it with as much innocence 
as though it was mere water " 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



103 



** Without doubt," added his mistress, ta- 
king one of the bottles and pouring part of 
its rich contents into a silver goblet. " I 
will myself show thee how harmless a beve- 
rage it is." So saying she raised the brim- 
ming vessel to her lips and swallowed it at 
a draught. Assured by this that there could 
be no harm in it, the unsuspicious Mabel al- 
lowed herself to take a moderate draught, 
seeing which her companions looked at each 
other with a peculiar smile, and presently, as 
she found the spicy nature of what she had 
eat so plentifully, made her mouth hot and 
dry, after the same pressing entreaties and 
earnest assurances, she repeated it. At last 
finding the simple girl could not be persuaded 
to eat or drink a mouthful more, the attend- 
ant cleared away the things, and Mabel was 
'eft alone with the lady. 

Directly they were alone the latter drew 
aer chair close to that of her companion, 
and with an irresistible air of sincerity and 
friendliness, took one of the poor foundling's 
hands in her own. 

"What a happy woman thou art!" ex- 
claimed Lady Comfit, with wonderful em- 
phasis, and observing Mabel looked as 
though she could not comprehend what 
should make her so very happy, added with 
Increasing earnestness, " What a proud wo- 
man thou art !" This exclamation appeared 
to be less understood than the preceding. 
" At least thou shouldst be," added the lady, 
in a marked manner. " I doubt not there are 
thousands of women would give all they are 
worth in the world to have thy good fortune." 

" Indeed !" cried Mabel, in a famous as- 
tonishment. 

" Ay, that would they, my sweet crea- 
ture," cried her companion, pressing her 
hand very affectionately. " But who of 
them all hath thy desert? Art thou not 
formed to be loved as no woman was ever 
loved before ?" At hearing this the poor 
foundling appeared to marvel too greatly to 
say anything. ' 

" O' my word, thou art like to become the 
envy of all women," continued Lady Com- 
fit. "Methinks 'twould be a most pitiful 
shame to allow of such perfections as thou 
hast, to be shut up in an obscure place 
where they can be seen of none who would 
hold them in proper appreciation, whilst the 
powerfulest noble in the land is sighing of 
his heart away with a sweet hoping so fair 
a creature might be esteemed of him, cher- 
ished by him, and caressed by him in such 
fashion as she is most worthy of. But I 
will wager my life on't thou hast too noble 
a spirit to be of such poor commodity ; and 
ait of too kindly a disposedness to let a 



princely gentleman, anxious to gratify thy 
every wish, linger out his days in hopeless 
misery, for lack of that happiness thou alone 
art capable of bestowing." 

" I ?" exclaimed Mabel, incredulously. 
" Believe me, I know of no such person ; 
have seen no such person. Surely there is 
some huge mistake in this." 

" Never did truer thing occur," replied the 
lady. " It matters not that thou shouldst 
never have beheld him — be assured he hath 
seen thee, and, as it could not help being, at 
the first sight of so much ravishing beau'ty, 
his noble heart was taken close prisoner, 
and he hath ever since been in a passionate 
phrenzy of impatience for the gaining of thy 
dear love." 

" Methinks 'tis a strange way of showing 
such, to tear me from my friends," observed 
the poor foundling. 

" 'Tis the way of these great ones, sweet- 
est," answered her companion. "But 'tis 
done out of no disrespect, be assured ; for 
he hath ordered thou shalt be treated with as 
much honor as though thou wert a crowned 
queen." 

" 'Tis exceeding strange !" said Mabel, 
marvelling the more, the more she heard. 

" Thou wilt see him anon," added the 
other. " And doubt not he will love thee 
with so deep a fondness, he will leave thee 
no cause for one moment's disquietude. 
Thou wilt be made happy straight — and 
such happiness shalt thou enjoy as thou 
hast never had experience of. All that di- 
vinest love and boundless magnificence can 
effect, shall crown thy wishes — never end- 
ing pleasures shall entice thy inclinations 
the whole day long — the splendid pageant- 
ries of state— the homage bestowed on ab- 
solute power — the observances and ceremo- 
nials of highest rank shall be for thy par- 
ticular honor on all occasions ; and wherever 
thou art inclined to turn thy steps, thou shalt 
meet with some new delight of infinite ex- 
quisiteness provided for no other end than to 
assist in making perpetual thy inconceivable 
felicity." 

"Indeed I know not what to say on such 
a matter," observed her young companion, 
somewhat bewildered at so magnificent a 
perspective. " I am so very humble a per- 
son,! cannot think myself fit to be raised to 
so proud a station ; and in all sincerity I 
say it, I would rather back to my friends, to 
give place to some one more worthy." 

" I will never allow of thy doing so fool- 
ish a thing," exclaimed Lady Comfit, in 
some seeming astonishment. " Thou must 
needs be the worst possible judge of the 
matter that exists ; and I am thy friend, 



104 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



sweetest, and therefore the very properest 
to advise thee in such a case." And there- 
upon the lady squeezed the foundling's hand, 
and gazed on her more affectionately than 
ever. 

" I should fuel extremely hounded to you, 
would you counsel me what to do," said the 
simple girl. " In very truth, my humble- 
ness seemeth to me utterly inconsistent with 
such grandeur as you have spoken of. 

" Nay, : tis thy modesty maketh thee think 
so," replied the other. " None can be so fit 
as thou art. Didst not note how famously 
thou didst become these costly vestments ? 
Just so admirably wilt thou become the love 
of that princely gentleman who commanded 
them for thy wearing. Trouble thyself 
nothing concerning of thine own thoughts. 
Thou art too young, sweetheart, to see these 
things in the properest light. Let it suffice, 
that the proud noble who loveth thee with 
such infiniteness, in his heart alloweth of 
none being so exalted ; and to convince thee 
how great is his respect, hath required me, 
Lady Arabella Comfit, an earl's daughter, 
to be thy companion and friend, and show 
thee such prodigal kindness as I would show 
to no other living." 

The poor foundling could scarce express 
her estimation of being treated with such 
handsomeness as to have an earl's daugh- 
ter for her companion, and the latter having 
at last managed to allay her doubts and ex- 
cite her curiousness, bade her amuse herself 
as she chose for a short time ; and then ca- 
ressing her with extreme aftectionateness, 
left the chamber. Mabel felt in a strange 
state of excitement. Not a thought of ex- 
treme unsuspiciousness which exists only 
in perfect innocency and genuine truthful- 
ness — a nature which, like a clear mirror 
in the fair sunshine, is made to throw o'er 
what it looks on, the light shining upon 
itself. 

In the meanwhile the Lady Arabella pro- 
ceeded to a distant chamber, with an expres- 
sion on her countenance very unlike what 
she had put on before the gentle Mabel, and 
as soon as she had opened the door, she 
gave way to a most unequivocal satirical 
sort of laugh. There was no one present 
but a gallant of a middle age, dressed in the 
foppery of the times, who had the look of 
confirmed dissoluteness which a long course 
of prodigal living usually bestows, and h» 
was idling the time away by picking of his 
teeth, with the remnants of his recent meal 
before him. The room was nothing like so 
choicely furnished as those the lady had left, 
yet it had sufficient comfort in it to content 
any ordinary person. 



" Ha ! how flyeth the game, Mol ?" ex- 
claimed the gallant, on noticing the en- 
trance of his visitor. " Doth she take the 
lure bravely ? Cometh she fairly into the 
decoy ? But I see by thy laughing she hath 
been so prettily mewed, that she careth not 
to ruffle her feathers against the golden 
wires of her cage." 

" O, my life, thou hast hit it," replied the 
lady, as she threw herself into a chair 
" The pretty fool is in such conceit of her 
splendid prison, she seemeth well content tc 
stay in it all her days." 

" She hath more wit than I have seen in 
her, if she can get it to last beyond a month 
or so," observed her companion ; " then she 
may fly where she lists. But hast taken 
care to fill her sufficiently with my lord ?" 
inquired he. 

" To the very throat," answered the other. 
" Indeed, I have so crammed her with him, 
that it must needs take some hours ere she 
can require another meal." 

" Nay, keep up her stomach, I prithee, 
Moll," cried the gallant, laughingly. " When 
my lord comes she may carve for herself. 
I shall start off on the instant, to acquaint 
him with the joyful intelligence, and ride 
like a post all the way ; and I hope he will 
bountifully remember my monstrous pains 
to provide him with so dainty a leman ; for 
in sober truth, my long ill luck at the 
cards, a murrain on them ! hath left me as 
near bare of coin as a pig's tail is of feath- 
ers." So saying, with a laugh half stifled 
with a yawn, he rose from his seat, stretch- 
ing his arms out to the near bursting of his 
doublet. 

" As I live, I do look for some famous re- 
ward myself, or I would not be so intent 
upon the matter !" observed the lady ; " and 
yet I marvel he should get so desperately 
enamored of a raw chit, that hath scarce 
sense enough to know that she walks upon 
two legs." 

" Methinks he had better have taken to 
thee, Moll, eh ?" inquired he, somewhat in 
sarcastic manner, " Mass ! there is exceed* 
ing little of the raw chit about thee, I'll war- 
rant ; and as for knowing, I would wager a 
dozen marks thou couldst spare a goodly 
share of thy knowledge, and yet be all the 
better for't." 

" For which I have to thank thee, thou 
thrice accursed villain !" fiercely exclaimed 
his companion, starting into a sudden rage 
at the taunt. "I was well enough ere I 
listened to thy beguiling." 

" Doubtless," coolly replied the other ; 
" well enough for one that is no better. And 
as for beguiling, thou took it so readily, it 



/ 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



105 



*u ■"-*>• t 'twas an exceeding familiar ac- 
quaintance with thee." 

" Thou lyest, thou paltry cozening knave !" 
cried the lady, looking monstrous black at 
him. " There could not be one more virtu- 
ous in this world ere I had such ill hap as 
to meet with thee." 

" Marry, but I have huge doubts of that, 
Moll," said the gallant, quietly putting on 
his hat ; " virtuousness such as thine must 
needs have been wonderfully cheap to the 
haver, for, as I well remember, I did but 
give thee a few pretty trinkets, a few pretty 
words, and a few pretty caresses, and thy 
virtue went to pieces, like a rotten apple un- 
der a cart-wheel." 

" Why thou infamous pitiful wretch, how 
dost dare say such things of me !" exclaim- 
ed the Lady Arabella, looking as terribly in- 
dignant, and as horribly enraged, as a bad 
woman could, who is taunted with her infa- 
my. " Thou hast had the villainy to plot 
my undoing — thou hast sought me, flattered, 
fondled, and betrayed me to ruin — day after 
day thou hast sworn thy honorableness and 
thy undying affection into my deluded ears, 
and I believing — poor fond fool ! — thy pro- 
digal oaths and protestations, left a worthy 
gentleman who loved me as his life — left 
home, friends, all things that were most 
worthy of my caring for, to cling to such 
baseness as I have here before me !" 

" Well said, Moll, o' my life well said !" 
he observed, as if applauding her to the 
echo. " I read the same notable speech, 
word for word, in a book of jests I had 
t'other day of one of my lord's players. I 
should not have credited thy memory was so 
good." 

" Get thee gone, thou pestilent jackal, to 
the lion thy master," cried his companion, 
with no little bitterness ; " thy riotous ill-liv- 
ing hath brought thee to such a pass, that 
thou art a disgrace to thy family, and a 
shame to thy friends, and can only continue 
thy discreditable existence by coney-catch- 
ing for some more prodigal villain than 
thyself." At hearing this the other took to 
whistling, yet he did it with so ill a grace, 
'twas evident he was in no humor for mu- 
sic. " Out on thee, thou cozening rascal !" 
continued she, with increasing emphasis ; 
" away, thou contemptible cheat ! What 
new trick hast learned to take gulls by? 
Art not in a brave humor for stealing 2 
Wouldst cut a purse — wouldst cog — wouldst 
foist — wouldst forswear thyself a thousand 
times ? Go get thee a rope for thine own 
hanging, and thou wilt save the constables 
*he trouble of carrying thee to the gallows !" 

" Hold thy cursed prate, thou foul-mouth- 



ed ronyon !" said the gallant, in that deep 
sort of voice which usually heralds a mon- 
strous passion. 

" Thou art a scurvy knave that would 
willingly do such dirty work as other men 
would scorn," replied the lady with infinite 
disgust. 

" Away, thou callet !" exclaimed tho 
other contemptuously. " Thou wouldst 
needs pass for a lady, forsooth, and hast a 
monstrous hankering after gentility. Fine 
o' my fife ! Moll Crupper a lady ! Alack, 
for good manners ! The saddler's daughter 
transformed into Lady Arabella Comfit. 
Here's goodly coney-catching ! A fine 
morning to you, an' it please you, my lady ! 
I commend myself very heartily to your 
ladyship's excellent consideration. Believe 
me I am infinitely bound to you for your 
ladyship's exquisite sweet condescension, 
and very humbly take my leave of your 
ladyship's most absolute and very admirable 
noble nature." 

So saying her companion, with a profu- 
sion of mock respect, was making his way 
towards the door, when Moll Crupper, who 
liked so little to be minded of her bad dis- 
posedness, evidently liked less to be told of 
her low origin, for she darted from her 
chair with a violent execration, and sprung 
upon her accuser with the fury of a tigress, 
pulling him by the hair with one hand, 
whilst she curried his face famously with 
the other. But this was borne with any- 
thing save patience by the gallant. No lack 
of coarse abuse mingled with the common- 
est oaths accompanied her endeavors to do 
him hurt, till after twisting her wrists till 
she desisted of her attack, and cried out with 
the pain, he pushed her away from him with 
such force, that she fell on the floor as if 
every sign of life had fled. This put the 
gallant in some sort of fear, for he had many 
reasons for at that moment no great harm 
should happen to her, so he ran and lifted 
her up with an extraordinary show of affec- 
tion. But the pretended lady was far from 
being dead. She knew what was going 
forward, and was disposed to take advan- 
tage of it, for she was well aware she could 
not exist without the assistance of her com- 
panion. She remained motionless as a 
stone, till her associate in villainy had ex- 
hausted every epithet of affection upon her 
and every species of execration upon him- 
self. And then she gradually opened her 
eyes, gradually employed her limbs, and gra- 
dually found the use of her tongue, as she 
had been in the habit of doing during a long 
series of similar conflicts. 

" What a wretch have I been to use thm 



106 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



so uncivilly, my sweet life," said he, with 
all a lover's fondness, as she rose from the 
floor, half reclining in his arms, drawing 
her hands over her face with a look that be- 
spoke a perfect unconsciousness of what 
had been going forward. " 1 know not 
what devilish spirit possesseth me. " 'Slight, 
I could go and beat out my brains against a 
post, I feel such hatred of myself; for never 
truer woman lived than thou art, my dear 
Moll, and so exquisite a creature to love, I 
shall never meet anywhere." 

" Nay, nay, I have been to blame, sweet 
heart," replied the fictitious Lady Arabella 
very kindly. " I had no need to have an- 
gered thee, for thou hast ever been a mon- 
strous deal more good to me than I have de- 
served." 

" Say not so, my wanton," exclaimed her 
companion with increased affectionateness. 
" Thy deserts are beyond all reckoning, and 
I hold thee in such absolute love as cannot 
cease unless my life be extinguished." 

" Dear heart, how I love thee for saying 
that," cried she, in a perfect ecstacy. 
" Thou art a noble, bountiful, brave gentle- 
man as ever breathed, and I care not a rush 
ferthe finest fellow that wears a head, for 
lie can be nought in comparison with thy 
inestimable sweet goodness." 

What followed may be readily imagined. 
Each of these two worthies, who a moment 
since joined so soundly in mutual abuse, and 
were desperate to do some mischief, now 
held up each other's qualities, as beyond all 
parallel, and would have gone through all 
manner of dangers to have saved the other 
from hurt. But these sort of scenes had 
been common with them for a long time 
past. They caressed, abused, and drubbed 
one another with infinite heartiness — and 
the next moment caressed, abused, and 
drubbed, and with more heartiness than 
ever. But it so happened on this occasion, 
having gone through the regular series, they 
left off at the first stage of the next, in con- 
sequence of the gallant being forced to take 
Ms departure without further delay. 



CHAPTER XV. 

And then the lover, 
Sighing like jwrnace, with a woful ballad 
Made to hie mistress's eyebrow. 

Shaespeare. 
He coude songes make and wel endite, 
Juste and eke dance, and wel pourtraie and 

write. 
So hote he loved that by nighteTtale 
He slep no more than doth the nightingale. 
Curteis he was, lowly, and servisable, 
And carf before his fader at the table. 

Chaucer. 
If I had wytt for to endyte 
Off my lady both fayre and free, 
Of her goodnesse then wolde I write — 
Shall no man know her name for me. 

Old Song. 

Sir Marmadttke de Largesse, his wor- 
thy chaplain, and his old acquaintance the 
Antiquary, were sitting round a table in the 
library seemingly wonderfully intent upon 
something. The good old knight sat back 
in his seat with one hand upon the handle ol 
his rapier, and the other resting upon the 
arm of his high-backed chair, his benevolent 
cheerful countenance impressed with a sort 
of curious pleasure, and his white beard and 
hair looking more silvery than ever they 
had. At a little distance from him sat Sir 
Johan, getting to be almost as lustily limbed 
as his patron, his plump sleek features prov* 
ing he had as much reason to be as prodi- 
gally grateful to Providence as he had been 
at any time ; and also exhibiting in his 
countenance a pleasant mingling of curious- 
ness and satisfaction. Both of these gazed 
upon Master Peregrine, who, with as much 
of the pantaloon in his appearance as ever, 
sat forward leaning of his elbows on a large 
book open upon the table, his hands holding 
a paper, and his eyes peering through his 
spectacles with a marvellous gratification, 
sometimes at his companions, and anon at 
what he held in his hands. 

" Never read I anything so sv^eetly fash- 
ioned !" exclaimed he. " I remember with 
what singular exquisite satisfaction I first 
read the most choice ballads of Fair Marga- 
ret and Sweet William, Lord Thomas and 
Fair Eleanor, and Little Musgrave and Lady 
Barnard, but the pleasure was nought in 
comparison with what I felt on perusing 
this most rare writing." 

" Marry, give me Cherry Chace, or the 
Battle of Otterborne!" cried Sir Marma- 
duke. " I never hear a verse of either but 
it stirreth me like a very trumpet." 

" I deny nothing of their excellence," ob- 
•erved the chaplain ; " but who ceuld for a 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



10T 



moment compare them with the inestimable 
sublimity of Pindar, the luscious sweetness 
of Anacreon, or the moving melodiousness 
of Musaesus ? I do assure you, that among 
the Greeks — to say nought of the Romans 
— there is sucli brave store of odes, songs, 
and elegies of the very choicest sort, as doth 
exceed all possible comprehension." 

" Tut, tut !" replied the antiquary, impa- 
tiently; "wouldst make me believe there 
hath ever been anything writ, or thought of, 
more gallant than Havelok the Dane, more 
pastoral than Harpalus, or more touching 
than Lady Greensleeves ?" 

" Beyond the possibility of doubting, wor- 
thy sir," answered Sir Johan ; — f* there 
shall easily be found in Homer things more 
martial, in Theocritus things more natural, 
and in Sappho things more tender." 

"Passion o' my heart! what hath become 
9f thy. wits, I wonder!" exclaimed Master 
Peregrine, in a manner between astonish- 
ment and indignation ; " I marvel that thou 
fhouldst essay to prove thyself such an addle 
wain. 

" Nay, if any brains be addled, Master 
Peregrine, it must needs be your own," re- 
plied the chaplain ; for 'tis out of all sense 
ind reason to slight the infinite choicer beau- 
6es of classic song for a parcel of silly old 
fctties." 

" Silly old ditties !" echoed the enraged 
antiquary, looking over his spectacles, as 
though he had a mind to do Sir Johan some 
grievous harm. " Is ' Lustely, lustely let 
us saile forthe 1' a silly old ditty ? Is ' Kytt 
hathe lost hur key,' a silly old ditty? Is 
4 Jolly good Ale !' a silly old ditty ? Is Guy 
of Colbronde, or Sir Tristrem, or John Dory, 
or a thousand others of the like unmatchable 
perfectness, silly old ditties ? thou shallow- 
witted, ignorant, poor goose, thou !" 

" I cry you mercy, my masters," exclaim- 
ed Sir Marmaduke, good-humoredly, as he 
had oft done on many similar occasions. 
" When you get to talk of these matters, 
you are like unto two lusty bulls, who can- 
not enter the same pasture without going 
to loggerheads. Surely, in advocating the 
excellency of a thing, there is no argument 
in squabbling." 

" Silly old ditties !" repeated Master Per- 
egrine, with considerable emphasis. 

"For mine own part," continued the 
knight, " though I will in no way seek to 
lessen the estimableness of the ancient wri- 
ters, either Greek or Latin, some how or other 
these same old ballads afford me that rare 
pleasure I have never found in songs of a 
more classic sort." 
" Perchance, I am somewhat to blame, in ■ 



having expressed myself so slightingly of 
such things," observed Sir Johan, whose or- 
thodoxy never led him to oppose his patron's 
opinion; "I meant no offence, believe me. 
Indeed, I do opine some of these excellent 
fine ballads, so liked of my esteemed friend 
here, are of a wonderful delicate concep- 
tion ; but Providence, who is ever so ex- 
ceeding bountiful, hath wisely ordained us 
different tastes, that one liking one thing, and 
another liking something different, no one 
thing should exist without being held in 
some estimation." 

"Silly old ditties!" Master Peregrine 
would have said again, but his better nature 
prevailed, and he swallowed the muttered 
words ; yet, with an air of triumph, as if he 
thought himself on a par with one of his 
beloved heroes of the Round table. 

" And now for that sweet song you have 
promised us," exclaimed Sir Marmaduke; 
you have spoken of it so fairly I am all im- 
patient to be hearing it." 

" O' my word . and so am I," replied his 
chaplain, eagerly ; " and as Master Peregrine 
hath such famous judgment in these matters, 
I doubt not he hath a rare treat in store for 
us." At this compliment to his judgment, 
all trace of displeasure vanished from the fea- 
tures of the antiquary ; and he said some civil 
speech, in modest denial of having more judg- 
ment than so learned a person as Sir Johan, 
took off his spectacles, wiped them carefully, 
replaced them, hemmed some twice or thrice, 
brought the paper somewhat closer to his 
nose, and with an appropriate serious man- 
ner read what is here set down : 

THE POETS SONG OF HIS SECRET 
LOVE. 

" Upon the dainty grass I lay me down 
When tired of labor on mine eyelids rest, 

And then such glad solaee I make my own. 
As none can know, for none can be so 
blessed. 

For then my sweeting comes so gallantlie, 

I cannot but eonceive she loveth me. 

I prythee tell me not of such bright fires 
As burn by day or night in yon fair skies ; 

For when I bring her to my ehaste desires 
Sun, moon, and stars are shining in her eyes. 

For then my sweeting, so well-favoredlie, 

With Heaven-like gaze declares she loveth me ! 

The tender blossoms blush upon their bowers. 
The luscious fruit hangs trembling by the 
Leaf: 

But her rose-tinted eheek out-glows all flowery 
Her cherry lips of fruits I prize the chiefl 

For then my sweeting so delightsomelie, 

Doth take her oath upon't, she loveth me ! 



108 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Alack, what pity 'tis, such moving sight 

Should cheat my heart within an idle dream ! 

Tis fantasy that brings such loving light — 
The fruit I never taste — but only seem : 

Oh, would my sweeting in all honestie, 

Vouchsafe to give some sign she loveth me 

I take no pleasure now in pleasant sports, 
I find no profit in books old or new ; 

I hie me where my life's fair queen resorts, 
For she's my pastime and my study too : 

And of my sweeting, say I urgentlie — 

What would I give to know she loveth me ! 

Yet though my heart with her so long hath 
been, 
I know not she takes heed of my behoof, 
I gaze on her, yet care not to be seen — 
I long to speak, and yet I keep aloof. 
And whilst my sweeting fills my thoughts— 

Perdie ! 
How oft I think — perchance she loveth me. 

Wher'er I turn methinks I see her face, 
If any lovely thing can there be found ; 

The air I breathe is haunted with her grace, 
And with her looks the flowers peep from the 
ground. 

I pray my sweeting, very earnestlie, 

She may incline to say she loveth me. 

But when from all fair things I travel far, 
Enwrapped within the shroud of darkest 
night; 

She rises through the shadows like a star, 
And with her beauty maketh the place bright. 

And of my sweeting breathe I tenderlie, 

Fortune be kind, and prove she loveth me !" 

" Indeed, 'tis a sweet ballad and a simple !" 
exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, who had listened 
with a famous attentiveness. 

" And of a most chaste and delicate fancy," 
added his chaplain, who seemed not a whit 
less pleased. " O' my word, it is long since 
I have heard verses writ with so natural a 
grace, or of so truly dainty a conceit. It 
remindeth me of those exquisite simple, ten- 
der poems, that are to be found here and 
there scattered amongst productions of the 
minor Greek poets." 

" Dost not know by whom it is written, 
Master Peregrine," inquired the old knight, 
seemingly to prevent the scornful reply the 
antiquary was about making to Sir Johan's 
allusion to the superiority of the classic 
writers. 

" No, nor can I guess," answered Master 
Peregrine ; " I have never seen nor heard of 
it before, and I am in some doubt as to its 
exact age, yet I could venture to make a 
guess from certain marks it hath, that it 
cannot be later than the time of Henry the 
Eighth." 



" 'Tis like enough," observed Sir Marma 
duke. " Perchance, it may be one of those 
same ballads our young scholar hath learned 
of his mother, and hath copied for your ex- 
press delectation, left it in the book, and so 
forgot it." 

" Nay, that can scarce be," replied the 
antiquary; for he hath oft times told me he 
knew of no more than such as he had already 
given," 

Just at this moment, the conversation was 
stopped by a knocking at the door, and the 
entrance of the very, person they were speak- 
ing of, who received a hearty welcome from 
all, but particularly from the good old knight. 
William Shakspeare glanced around as if in 
search of some one, but evidently by his 
looks, he saw not the one he wanted. 

" What, hast had a bout at cudgel play ?" 
exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, merrily, as he 
noticed the bandage that still remained upon 
William Shakspeare's wounded head. There- 
upon, he presently told how he had got it, 
which seemed to set them marvelling great- 
ly, and the old knight was much moved at 
hearing that the fair creature he had helped 
to save from villains at Kenilworth was now 
completely in their power. He kept asking 
of questions about which way they went, 
and what sort of persons were they, inter- 
mingled with expressions of grief for the 
fate of the pretty damsel, and of hostility 
against her betrayers. He got, however, 
but indifferent answers, for in truth the youth 
knew a very little more than himself. Mas- 
ter Peregrine, whose appreciation of ballads 
was much higher than that of women, man- 
ifested no inconsiderable impatience at this 
turn in the conversation. 

"Will Shakspeare!" cried he, at last; 
"Prithee come here ; I want thee awhile." 
The young student left Sir Marmaduke, and 
approached close to the antiquary. " Thou 
wilt do me a service, if thou wilt tell me 
where gottest thou this ballad." William 
Shakspeare glanced his eye at the paper, 
and on the instant, a very perceptible blush 
mantled his fair features. " Where didst 
have it from ?" 

" I wrote it, an' it please you, worthy sir," 
answered the young student, somewhat fal 
teringly. 

" Ay, 'tis in thy hand, I see ; but whence 
came it ?" inquired the other, more urgently. 

" By'r lady, I do suspect the young rogue 
hath made it of his own invention," exclaim- 
ed the old knight. 

" So think I," added the chaplain. 

" Ey ; dost mean to say these delicate 
verses are out of thine own head ?" cried 
the antiquary, in exceeding astonishment 



1HE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



109 



t Indeed, they are truly of my poor indit- 
!>g,'" replied the young poet, modestly. 
S*drce were the words well out of his mouth 
when Master Peregrine, in an ecstacy of 
admiration, threw his arms round his neck, 
and hugged him as though he were a prodi- 
gal son returned to his old father after a long 
absence. 

" Why thou delectable sweet rogue !" ex- 
claimed he, " where didst get such admira- 
ble choice ideas ?" 

" Methinks 'tis plain enough whence they 
proceeded," observed Sir Johan, with mar- 
vellous satisfaction. " I have taken huge 
pains for some length of time our young 
friend should have a proper acquaintance 
with the treasures of classic song, both Greek 
and 'tis an easy matter to see how much my 
scholar hath profited by my instruction : for, 
as I said when I first heard those verses. 
they do remind me powerfully of some spe- 
cimens of the minor Greek poets." 

" Remind thee of a fig's end !" exclaimed 
Master Peregrine, contemptuously. Cannot 
any one see with half an eye — save those 
ignorant poor coxcombs who are blind as 
bats — that this is a true ballad of the choice 
4ld school ; and it is not well known what 
fcrtreme pains-taking I have had with this 
ly scholar from the first, that he should be 
well-grounded in ballad lore ; and lo ! here 
is my reward — which in very truth, exceed- 
eth my most sanguine expectations." 

" Nay, I will be bound by his answer," 
said the chaplain, not at all disposed to give 
up the honor of having produced so credi- 
table a scholar. "Prithee declare, my ex- 
cellent young friend, whether I have not, at 
all convenient times, bespoke thy commen- 
dation of all that was most admirable in 
classic song ?" 

" That have you, honored sir, and I thank 
you very heartily," replied the youthful 
Shakspeare. Sir Johan looked satisfied. 

" And tell me this, my king of nightin- 
gales," cried Master Peregrine, too confident 
of his own right to allow of being deprived 
of them. " Have I not taken opportunity by 
the hand with thee, to make thee familiar 
with the rarest ballads that ever were writ ?" 

"Indeed you have, worthy sir, and I shall 
feel beholden to you all my life long," an- 
swered the young post. Sir Guy never 
looked so triumphant as did our antiquary. 

" I will maintain, those verses are of the 
true lyric fashion," observed Sir Johan, " and 
therefore they cannot help being the result 
of an acquaintance with their classic pro- 
totype." 

"Classic pudding!" exclaimed Master 
Peregrine, getting to be somewhat in a rage. 



" If any will prove to me these verses are 
Greek verses, or Latin verses either, then 
will I allow they came of such teaching ; 
but since it is plain to common sense, that 
what I here hold is a ballad, and, moreover, 
an English ballad of the true, simple, grace- 
ful, chaste style of English ballad writing, 
methinks it shall want no conjuror to say it 
had its origin in that inimitable famous 
school, and oweth not one jot to Greek or 
Latin, or any such pitiful, poor, weak, dull, 
shallow, unprofitable rubbish." 

Rubbish!" cried the chaplain, astonished 
and indignant in no small measure ; and he 
would doubtless have expressed himself with 
some force to that effect, had not Sir Mar- 
maduke at that moment stopped him, by 
asking William Shakspeare if he had 
written anything of the sort before. To 
which he replied it was his first attempt ; 
and to further questions answered, he had 
been reading of some choice love songs, and 
all at once he had a great desire to essay 
something of a like kind. Thereupon he 
got paper, and with a pen wrote those lines, 
which, not thinking muclvof, he had left in 
the book, intending to try and do something 
better at another time. This made all 
marvel greatly. 

Certes, it was far out of ordinary things to 
find one, still a boy as it might be said, 
wooing of the Muses in such proper style. 
Yet, though none saw it, there had been 
gradual preparation of this for some time. 
The youthful poet had held communion with 
the philosophy of nature for years past, 
through that spirit of intelligence which 
breathes o'er all which belongeth to the 
beautiful and the good. He had laid down 
to dream of it; he had woke up to worship 
it. Wherever he went he beheld its pre- 
sence. In all seasons he had felt its influ- 
ence. The voices of the murmuring river 
called to him in his solitude — the shadows 
of the deep dark woods fell upon his thoughts 
— the opening glade, the far-off hills, and 
the fair skies, in all their glorious pageantry, 
haunted his hours of rest — the silent night 
rung with the echoes of a thousand songs 
tuned by the rarest band of forest choristers, 
and even in the chillest winter, when the 
trees bear naught but icicles, and the hard 
ground is smothered with frost and snow, 
where'er he walked the choicest flowers 
bloomed in their most fragrant robes — the 
sun smiled lovingly before his eyes; and 
verdure, sweetness, and beauty, made for 
him, all around, a garden of. the very ex- 
quisitest delight. 

But of late he had felt a something more 
than this ; all the lovingest things of natur* 



*10 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



he had made of his familiar acquaintance, 
and had found in them such wisdom as 
nature never hath bestowed elsewhere ; but 
to comprehend this wisdom in its fullest 
meaning required the assistance of an in- 
terpreter. This interpreter was Love. This 
Love though, let it be known, as yet he was 
content with knowing at a distance. He 
had seen of him but little, just enough to 
know him by, and liked not appearing too 
bold a visitor, but rather a respectful ac- 
quaintance or humble poor friend, that would 
be glad of some help, but dare not, out of 
reverence, attempt any such familiarity as 
the acquainting him with his wants. Never- 
theless he had managed in this slight com- 
panionship to acquire at his hands some 
small portion of that power which argueth 
a knowledge of all natural wisdom — and 
that was poetry. It had made its appear- 
ance like a fresh pure spring trickling in 
the delicatest, clearest drops down a fair 
hill covered with verdure and studded with 
all manner of sweet blossoms; and now 
having it at its source, all that is to be done 
is to trace the progress of the stream, till it 
rushed a mighty river into the great ocean 
of immortality. 

Finding that Sir Valentine had gone to 
join a hunting party some miles off, the 
young poet bent his steps homewards in 
great trouble of mind, because he knew not 
what to do regarding the poor foundling. 
As he was crossing the field, so lost in his 
musings as to be perfectly regardless of all 
other things, on a sudden a pair of hands 
from some one behind caught him round the 
head and blindfolded him, and a loud laugh 
burst from several voices, after that fashion 
used by boys when they have succeeded in 
playing off any famous drollery. 

" Now Will !" cried one, " use thy wits, 
I prithee, and tell us who hath hold of thee ?" 

■'Nay, let me hear the voice," replied 
William Shakspeare, taking their pleas- 
antry in very good part, though he felt not 
in the humor to join in it as heartily as he 
was wont. 

" Odds codlings, that thou shalt, I'll war- 
rant," answered a trembling old woman's 
voice close behind him ; " for as I was a 
saying no later than the week before last 
Martlemas, over a brave fire in the chimney 
corner of Neighbor Bavins -." 

" Why, Mother Flytrap !" exclaimed the 
youthful Shakspeare, who had listened in 
exceeding astonishment, " how didst get so 
close to me and I not know it ?" At this 
the laugh was louder than before. 

" Here is a vile world !" cried some one 
in the dismalest tones ever heard ; " here is 



a monstrous villainy ! How darest thou to 
do such intolerable wickedness as to play 
the infamous game of hot-cockles in so holy 
a place as the church-yard ?" 

" I, Oliver Dumps !" exclaimed the blinded 
youth in huge consternation : " believe me, 
I have not played at hot-cockles this many a 
day." Whereupon the young rogues ap- 
peared as though they would have rolled 
themselves in the grass they enjoyed them- 
selves to such excess. 

" An' it pul-pul-pul-pul please you," stut- 
tered another familiar voice, "mum-mum- 
mum-mum master says, he wer-wer-wer-wer 
wants you to send him word — wer-wer-wer- 
wer what sixpenny gloves are a pair !" 

"Why, sixpence, to be sure, Dickon," 
replied the other. " But I have a monstrous 
suspicion thou hast been sent on a fool's 
errand." Upon this all laughed so long and 
loudly, it looked as if there would be no end 
to their mirth. 

" O' my life, now here is Tom Greene at 
his tricks again!" said William Shaks- 
peare all at once, for the other had betrayed 
himself by vainly attempting to stifle his 
laughter, and at this the hands were taken 
off his eyes amidst the uproarious shouting 
of the whole party, and turning round, hi 
beheld his old schoolfellows, Greene, Bui 
bage, Condell, and Hemings, staggeriia 
about with all sorts of strange motions, ani, 
filling the air with peal after peal of laughing. 

" 1 was thinking of another matter, Tom," 
said the youthful Shakspeare, " else should 
I have found thee out much sooner, for all 
thou art so famous a mimic." 

" Was ever so rare a jest played !" ex- 
claimed one with a handsome cheerful 
countenance. (i No hungry luce ever took 
a hooked gudgeon more unsuspiciously than 
did Will Tom's well-managed baits. Mother 
Flytrap, Oliver Dumps, and stuttering Dic- 
kon, he would have sworn were behind him 
with as little remorse as a pig eats chesnuts ; 
yet I will forswear pippins and marchpane 
if any other spoke save Tom Greene." 

" I'faith ! the cheat was well managed, 
Dick, I will allow," answered young Will ; 
" but Tom is so Proteus a varlet, 'tis an 
easy matter for him to play the old woman, 
or perchance make such a wfttol of himself 
as Dickon, or even take off the melancholy 
constable till such time as the melancholy 
constable may choose to take off him." 

S' What, wouldst have me in the stocks, 
thou rogue !" exclaimed Tom very merrily. 
" Marry. ! I like not such hose to my legs. 
But come, let us play a play, Will ; we 
have not had that pleasant pastime of guts 
for weeks past " 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Ill 



" A play, Will— a play, I prithee!" cried 
Dick Burbage. " We have been looking for 
thee far and near, for I have got me a right 
; mirthful interlude which my father ha^h left 
behind him, and if thou wilt take a part, we 
will do it in brave style, I warrant." 

"Nay, let us have Gammer Gurton 
again!" said a stout sturdy little fellow, 
rather urgently. 

" Thou art ever for playing Gammer Gur- 
ton, Condell," observed a tall, sharp-looking 
boy. " Let us have that goodly play of the 
Four P's. Will Shakspeare can do the 
Poticary, Dick Burbage the Pedlar, Tom 
Greene the Pardoner, and I the Palmer." 

" And prithee, what shall I do in it, Hem- 
ings ?'" asked Condell. 

u As I live, thou shalt have enough to do !" 
replied his companion ; " for thou shalt play 
U.e part of all the spectators." At hearing 
this there was another good laugh amongst 

tbeui. 

* At present I have neither time nor hu- 
mor for playing," answered William Shaks- 
peare ; " nor can I tariy a moment longer, 
for pressing matters hurry me away." This 
answer was evidently but little relished by 
any of the party, and they tried no lack of. 
entreaties and persuasion to get him to join 
in their sports. Nevertheless they could not 
prevail in any wav and finding such to be 
the case, they parted with him at the top of 
Henley-street, and straightway made for a 
field called Salisbury-pit* ce to have a play by 
themselves. 

John Shakspeare had been enquiring of 
the neighbors the whole morning long ; but 
getting no intelligence of his son, he had 
returned with a little misgiving io his anxi- 
ous wife. With her he found the Widow 
Pippins, in as merry a mood as ever, and 
Mistress Malmsey and Mistress Dowlas 
looking with such kindness and comeliness 
as if they never intended to lessen the 
pleasantness of their features or behavior ; 
and they had stepped in, hearing that Wil- 
liam was not to be found, to offer their ad- 
vice and sympathy, and hopes for the best, 
to their somewhat desponding neighbor. 
The widow had just described an exquisite 
jest she had played upon a drunken falconer, 
by abstracting the game from his bag, and 
putting therein a litter of kittens she had 
drowned the day before, and the aldermen's 
wives were laughing heartily to induce their 
ead hearted gossip to follow their goodly 
example. At this moment returned John 
Shakspeare from his fruitless errand, who 
was assailed by a whole succession of ques- 
tions from all the women, to which his an- 
swers appeared in no way satisfactory, for 



though they spoke very forcible their con- 
victions, he was in this place or in that, 
beyond all contradiction, they marvelled 
exceedingly where he could have got to. 

" It is so little like him to play the tru- 
ant with us," observed Dame Shakspeare, 
striving to appear more satisfied with the 
matter than she was. " Indeed, he giveth 
me but small cause of blame, save that he 
will sometimes be poring over a book when 
he should be taking of his proper rest." 

" Well, it doth puzzle me famously to 
know what some folks see in books," said 
the merry widow. " For mine own part, I 
care not for the best that ever was WTit, 
unless it be a book of jests or riddles, and 
then I must have some one to read them, for 
reading never took to me, and therefore 'tis 
natural I never took to reading. By my 
troth, now I do remember a fine jest as ever 
was played upon Sir Nathaniel, with a cer- 
tain book of riddles that was left at my house 
by a strolling minstrel." 

The widow Pippins had scarce com- 
menced her narrative, when the door opened, 
and he whom they had been in such travail 
about, made his appearance. All manner of 
exclamations saluted his entrance ; some 
began to scold, and some to question, but he 
took no heed of then till he had received hia 
mother's caresses, and then very readny 
made them acquainted with all that had 
happened to him. Here was famous matter 
for marvelling, and none of the gossips al- 
lowed it to lie idle on their hands. The 
aldermen's wives, who knew every body and 
everything, entered into a famous history 
of Mabel. As for the forcible abduction, 
some considered it done by the parents to 
recover their child secretly, others suspected 
it was a scheme of Tom Lucy, assisted by 
some of his college companions as wild as 
himself, with no honest intention, but the 
widow stuck out it was nothing more than 
a jest of Sir Thomas' to afford himself a new 
subject for boasting of his marvellous clever- 
ness in the playing of tricks. 

Having exhausted all they had to say 
upon the subject, the gossips took their de- 
parture, and John Shakspeare was left to the 
society of his wife and children. Of him it 
may be necessary here to say, he had gone 
on struggling, but the same reverses met all 
his exertions. He could scarce get a living 
even in the humblest manner, and he was 
often reduced to the saddest shifts that pov- 
erty can endure, but he went on with the 
same resolution, making no complaint to any, 
and striving to appear as contented as the 
rest. As for John a Combe, he proceeded 
much in the same way — unsocial, uncharita- 



112 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



ble, careless of his own comforts, and heed- 
less of that of others — never opening his 
mouth to any person, save in the way of bu- 
siness, unless to breathe such bitterness of 
heart as showed the fearful change that had 
come over his once noble and generous na- 
ture. But what had worked this fearful 
change none knew. The effects were ter- 
ribly conspicuous. Every one beheld them 
and grieved at them ; and put up with his 
uncivilness out of respect for the honorable- 
ness of his behavior at an earlier time. Yet 
of the cause the most knowing of the gossips 
of the town knew nothing whatever. They 
marvelled more and more every day, till its 
commonness took off the edge of their won- 
der. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

The subject of all verse 
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 

Ben Jonson. 

Give place, ye lovers, here before 

That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; 

My lady's beauty passeth more 

The best of yours, I dare well faine, 

Than doth the sun the candle light, 

Or brightest day the darkest night, 

Lord Surrey. 

Art thou my son, that miracle of wit, 

Who once, within these three months, wert es- 
teemed 

A wonder of thine age throughout Bononia 1 

How did the university applaud 

Thy government, behavior, learning, speech, 

Sweetness, and all that could make up a man !" 

Ford. 

Both flowers and weeds spring when the sun is 
warm, 

And great men do great good or else great harm. 

Webster. 

In an ante-room adjoining of the Queen's 
presence-chamber, in her highness's palace 
of Nonsuch, there was a famous company 
of lords and ladies in different groups. Here 
would be a famous party of gallants paying 
of their court to the fairest of the throng, 
whereof the greater number were exceeding 
fair, and she was no other than Lady Rich, 
usually styled " The beautiful Lady Rich," 
and well she deserved so admirable a title, 
for nought could exceed the sweet exquisite- 
noes with which the lily and the rose united 
their choicest graces to deck her delicate 
cheek ; or the soft subduing light that shone 
bo delightsomely within the fountains of her 
radiant looks. All her features were of the 



same unrivalled perfectness, and over thea 
the spirit of beauty breathed so wooingly, 
that such as gazed upon the temple were ir- 
resistibly drawn there to pay their devotions. 
Foremost in the circle of her admirers was 
one who, by the choiceness of his dress, the 
neatness of his speech, and the studied court- 
liness of his manner, was manifestly born 
only to shine in the atmosphere of a court. 
Every thing about him spoke the desire to 
please, and the ready smile that accompa- 
nied the delicate flattery, appeared to prove 
how aptly he could receive pleasure of ano- 
ther. This was Sir Christopher Hatton, the 
very mirror of courtesy and text-book of com- 
pliment, and the most finished courtier of his 
day. His apparel was not more dainty Shan 
his phrases, and his behavior was of a kind 
fittest to accord with both. He moved as 
though he thought himself under the eyes 
of the graces, having every gesture so prop- 
erly produced, it went not a hair's breadth 
from the most graceful position that could 
be accomplished under the circumstances. 
His features were so fashioned as to make 
all fair weather in his calendar. The sun 
shone every day in the week. There was 
no winter, no clouds, no eclipses. He would 
as soon have hanged himself as frowned. — 
He would sooner have thrown himself into 
the Thames river than allowed an uncivil 
word to escape him. What was his age it 
would be difficult to guess with any exact- 
ness, for as he had been heard to say he con- 
sidered age to be an exceeding vulgar fellow 
with whom he would hold no acqaintance, 
it is possible he disguised himself as much 
as he could to prevent his being known by 
so rude a person. 

But Sir Christopher was not without pos- 
sessing something of other talent beside the 
courtly accomplishments of fencing, danc- 
ing, and compliment, nevertheless his whole 
ambition was to apply such gift as part of 
the necessary appliances of a courtier, and 
he never made use of it, save only to help 
him at a pinch to exhibit his continual de- 
sire to please. About him were divers gal- 
lants and young gentlemen of the palace, 
who looked up to him as their model, and 
framed their speech, their apparel, and their 
behavior as nigh as might be to their great 
original. His last phrase by their means 
travelled quickly to all persons choice in 
their speech ; and it was by the same as- 
sistance the last new step of his came into 
use amongst such as wished to be consi- 
dered the very fashionablest dancers of the 
time. 

In the recess of a window that looked out 
upon the grounds were another group, the 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



118 



cynosure of which appeared to be a lady of a 
most delectable presence, whose ample deli- 
cate forehead and intelligent gaze, gave to- 
ken of as rare a mind as ever was worthy 
of the choicest and beautifulest framing. — 
She was a notable instance of woman's per- 
fectness — whose moving graces created the 
exquisitest thoughts in the minds of those 
gifted ones who came within their influence ; 
but the poetry of her own nature was full as 
exquisite as any that she called into being. 
Her voice breathed its very atmosphere — 
and her eyes were such bright casements, 
within which it hath ever loved to find its 
home. It is no marvel then she should be 
bo much the admiration of all true lovers of 
excellence — that her good opinion should be 
so much coveted of such as sought after 
praise that is the most valuable, or that her 
smiles made wherever she went a midsum- 
mer garden of the mind's unfading flowers. 
Methinks 'tis scarce necessary to add that 
her perfect modesty kept worthy companion- 
ship with her noble mind, for it may be ta- 
ken as an indisputable truth that high intelli- 
gence doth ever signify the presence of mo- 
ral feelings equally exaked. Be sure that 
where the mind displays itself ,in its most 
sterling character, there is no alloy of any 
baseness. It is clean impossible it can be 
otherwise, for however it may sometimes 
seem, nature alloweth of no such unnatural 
alliances. Signs of great intellect may ap- 
pear where want of goodness is equally ma- 
nifest, but the former of these signs on close 
scrutiny, turn out to be not so admirable as 
they look — in fact, instead of being the ster- 
ling gold in its native purity, they are only 
such ores as require so much cleansing to 
put them into use, as will hardly repay the 
labor. It may perchance have been found, 
that this preciousness hath bad a bad look 
with it, but it only followeth of the rubs it 
may get of such base things as it may come 
in contact with. It is still as sterling as 
ever, despite appearances ; and fair usage 
will keep it in that brightness it ought al- 
ways to wear. 

Leaning affectionately over the countess's 
chair, was a young gallant of a like noble 
brow, and of an aspect somewhat similar in 
its intelligent expression. There was some- 
thing more of gravity, and there was some- 
thing less of sweetness in the countenance.yet 
there were the same highmindedness beam- 
ing out of the sparkling eyes, and a similar 
thoughtful eloquence smiling around the 
corners of the delicate mouth. It was easy 
tp be seen by this likeness and by the tender 
familiarity with which one behaved to the 
ether, that they stood in some relationship. 



They were brother and sister. Such a bro- 
ther and sister as the world sees not in many 
ages, — perchance, may never see again, for 
they were not more alike in the admirable- 
ness of their outward lineaments, than they 
were in all manner of moral and mental 
qualities. 

Where shall we meet with another Count- 
ess of Pembroke, — the ready patroness of 
merit, yet outshining all merit with her own 
— ever ready to pay her homage to virtue, 
yet in herself possessing such virtue as ex- 
ceeded all other examples ? And where 
shall we look for another Sir Philip Sydney 
— the soul of honor, the spirit of chivalry, 
the courtliest among the courtly, and the 
bravest among the brave — though scarcely 
in the full dawning of his manhood, his wis- 
dom went beyond that of the most experi- 
enced counsellors, and though formed by the 
choicest gifts of nature to fill the proudest 
seats in the chiefest places of greatness, his 
ambition never went beyond the performing 
of valiant and generous deeds, writing wor- 
thily on honorable subjects, living with a 
proper respect, and dying with a becoming 
nobleness. In him knighthood possessed its 
last and rarest ornament, and manhood one 
of its most admirable examples. Genius ac- 
knowledged him as her son, and honor 
claimed him as her champion ; and every 
virtue that could grace humanity, where all 
in him that was human was of so gracious 
a nature, might justly have put forth a boast, 
that in him they showed to the world how 
well they could adorn a man. 

It may readily be imagined that this truly 
gallant gentleman was the love, the model, 
and the admiration of all the gallant hearts 
of his age. Indeed, by such as possessed 
the genuine chivalrous spirit, he was re- 
garded as a sort of deity. They considered 
no station so great as to be of his acquaint- 
ance, and no honor so estimable as to have 
his praise. It therefore followeth very na- 
turally that Sir Reginald and Sir Valentine 
should have eagerly sought his friendship, 
the which their valor and honorable conduct 
had gained for them ; and this known, it is 
in no way surprising the former of these 
young knights should now be standing at 
his elbow, joining in the conversation with 
Master Arthur Gorges, a young gallant of 
great worthiness, — my Lord Buckhurst, a 
nobleman favorably known to the muses, and 
divers other knights and nobles, whose love 
of song went hand in hand with their admira- 
tion of true valor. 

Besides these there were a great crowd of 
nobles, knights, and ladies, gallants, courti- 
ers, officers of the queen's household, conv 



114 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



danders by sea and land, learned judges, 
grave prelates, and others of her highness's 
loving subjects of different ranks twid condi- 
tions, intent upon paying of their court to 
their sovereign, as soon as she concluded 
her audience with certain ambassadors with 
whom she was now closeted. There was a 
great variety in the colors of the different 
rich stuffs, but with the exception of some 
few in their robes, every gallant wore the 
same fashioned doublet, trunks, hose, and 
ehoe-roses, and every lady the same long- 
stomached dress with a stiff poking-out far- 
thingale. Some were whiling the time by 
admiring the figures on the cloth of tissue. 
The commanders were conversing of the 
famous good fortune of Sir Francis Drake, 
in his last voyage. The ministers were spe- 
culating on the probability of the queen's 
marriage with the Duke of Anjou. The 
courtiers amused themselves with tales con- 
cerning of the differences between my Lord 
of Leicester and the Earl of Sussex. The 
gallants were putting off their last learned 
graces of behavior on such of the fair dames 
they could get to heed them. The ladies 
were conversing either of the newest Ve- 
netian fashion, or tae latest jest of Master 
Tarleton, her highness's jester. And the 
judges and prelates were lamenting together 
the intolerable evils of witchcraft and pa- 
pistry ; but the circle around the Countess of 
Pembroke and Sir Philip Sydney were be- 
wiling the hour in a manner more profitable 
to themselves than did any of the others, as 
I will here endeavor to show. 

" Touching the capabilities of our nature," 
observed that illustrious scholar, " I am in- 
clined to believe there is no greatness it 
may not aim at. But there can .be no true 
greatness independent of the affections, for 
these are the springs that do refresh the 
ground, and make it bear the noblest and 
choicest plants at all proper seasons." 

" I cannot help thinking the same thing," 
added his sister. " Perchance there have 
been philosophers to whom all such feeling 
as love appeared utterly unknown ; they 
might have scoffed at it in themselves and 
ridiculed it in others ; but such examples 
should be looked upon as the result of unnatu- 
ral circumstances — like unto flowers that lose 
their color by growing in the dark — or fruits 
that part with their flavor by being planted 
in an improper climate. That is sure to be 
the truest wisdom that cometh of the most 
benevolent mind, for it embraces the whole 
world with some everlasting truth which 
hath universal happiness for its object ; 
whilst the philosophy of such as have no 
such feeling in their hearts can be born only 



of books ; they are mere scholars that hate 
no better object in view than raising them- 
selves above their fellows, instead of striv- 
ing to raise themselves up to them. Such a 
philosopher attains celebrity only by feeding 
on those who went before him : — his cunning 
is of a like kind with that of the serpent of 
Moses, which swallowed up all the rest." 

" Just so," said Sir Philip Sydney ; " for 
if we notice how love works upon the mind? 
we shall readily come at the philosophy of 
the affections. Taking the two examples 
of this feeling in ordinary acceptance, to wit, 
the lover and the philanthropist, we imme- 
diately see how generous love hath made 
them in their notions, — the one is ready to 
undertake any danger in the conviction of 
his mistress's superiority to all her sex ; the 
other would make any sacrifice to benefit 
those who required his assistance, in the 
express belief of the worthiness of the whole 
human race. The valor of love is equal to 
its generosity ; and methinks these twins of 
comeliness will be found together in every 
example of a true knight and complete 
gentleman. Nothing can be so valiant as 
love, which makes so undeniable the Latin 
adage which declareth that love conquereth 
all things, — for love hath achieved the 
brightest deeds that are the glory of chivalry. 
But as love granteth whatever is most ad- 
mirable to the object of its regard, it seeketh 
by all honorable means to make itself of a 
like perfectness ; and is thus by degrees led 
to the attainment of the noblest offices, and 
to the possession of the most honorable ac- 
complishments that can be acquired." 

" So I have thought, though, as must 
needs be not in so excellent a fashion !" ob- 
served Sir Reginald. 

" But surely there is a vast distinction 
between what is called gallantry and genu- 
ine affection ?■" exclaimed Lord Buckhurst. 
" There are hundreds of fine popinjays to be 
met with, protesting a monstrous affection- 
ateness for every woman they meet, and I 
never saw in them any of the virtues of 
which you spoke." 

" So there are hundreds that affect great 
religiousness," observed Sir Philip Sydney, 
" which is done not out of any true reve- 
rence, but merely because it is the fashion. 
But genuine gallantry is of an exceeding 
different nature. It is of a kin with that 
ancient worship that honored all deities 
alike. Nevertheless, even in these instances 
there will be found a niche in the temple of 
the heart dedicated to the service of some 
unknown god; and througnout the whole 
nature there exists a continual anxiousness 
to have that place worthily supplied. la 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



115 



rid time such desire is accomplished ; and 
assured, the idol there placed hath more 
worship than all the rest together." 

"The true worship of love is goodness," 
added the Countess ; " and it is a sign by 
which genuine affection may always be dis- 
tinguished from mere profession. True 
love is purity, honesty, truth, honor, cour- 
tesy, and bravery confessed in action. Where 
there is any meanness, where there is any sel- 
fishness, where there is ought of falsehood, im- 
modesty, uncivilness, cowardice, or villainy, 
love never abideth. Doubtless some may as- 
sert this sweetener of life hath been found with 
some such base accompaniments as I have 
just named ; but out of all doubt the latter is 
entirely different, and should be avoided for 
its unwholesomeness. It is like unto such 
honey as divers sorts of wild bees have been 
known to make from poisonous flowers." 

" But how rarely shall we find this love 
in all its perfectness and purity !" exclaimed 
Lord Buckhurst. 

" Nay, my good lord, it is none so rare !" 
replied Sir Reginald, with some earnestness. 
" Wherever woman hath a fair field for the 
development of her infinite perfections, such 
love will follow, as naturally as light springs 
from the sun ; and to a knowledge of these 
absolute graces originated that proud sense 
of honor, and true nobleness of feeling in 
man, which hath done such famous achieve- 
ments throughout Christendom, under the 
estimable name of chivalry." 

" True, Sir Reginald," observed Sir 
Philip Sydney, with a glance of approbation 
at his young friend. " There are two states 
of society, in all outward appearance as far 
asunder as are the poles — where true love 
is ever to be met with. The one is the 
courtly empire of knights and ladies, which 

Eroduceth the gallantest deeds and the 
onorablest behavior — the other is the sim- 
ple republic of shepherds and sheperd- 
esses, where innocence is crowned with a 
garland of the freshest flowers of the field, 
and honesty jogs merrily along, enjoying the 
pleasant minstrelsy of the pipe and tabour." 
" Which think you, is the happiest state ?" 
inquired Master Arthur Gorges. 

" That in which the wants are the fewest, 
and the desires of easiest attainment," re- 
plied the other. " It is doubtful to which 
we ought to give the preference. Happiness 
•nay exist indifferently in either state ; 
but according to what we know of Arca- 
iian manners, these same swains and 
•ymphs must have enjoyed the most blame- 
'ess sweet life ever heard of. I cannot ima- 
gine any more moving picture than a choice 
torapany of such, tending of their woolly 



flocks in the fresh pastures — or in the cool 
eventide dancing away the joyous hours, 
with their sweet music ; whilst in some 
green arbor nigh at hand, the enamored 
Colin whispers a love tale to his blushing 
Daphne, and the seniors of the village sit 
under the shadow of the friendly trees, 
quaffing the rich juices of their vineyards, and 
telling of marvellous stories and merry jests." 
" Ha ! cousin Philip, art there again !" 
exclaimed the Earl of Leicester in a plea- 
sant manner, as he entered the circle, cloth* 
ed with such gorgeousness as far exceeded . 
all the tiring around. " Why thy moving 
descriptions of Arcadian life will presently 
make all persons of worship in a frenzy to 
attain the like happiness. My Lord Burgh- 
ley sweareth he hath serious thoughts of 
retiring from court, and keeping sheep at 
Theobalds. Sir Christopher Hatton hath 
been heard, for hours together, practising on 
a small pipe, in hopes of getting the queen's 
ladies to dance to his piping in the true 
rural style ; and as for myself, I have been 
looking for weeks past for a crook and a 
shepherdess, that I may in the very proper- 
est manner sit me down in some enamelled 
plain, and there happily live out the re- 
mainder of my days, dividing of my cares 
betwixt my lambs and my love." 

" Methinks, my lord, you would soon pine 
for the pleasant pageantries you had left 
behind," observed the countess, with a 
smile. 

" The gentle shepherd would be ever a 
sighing to be once again the most accom- 
plished knight in the tourney," added Sir 
Philip Sydney with a like pleasantness. "He 
would be right glad to change his seat on 
the enamelled plain for the saddle of his 
good steed — his crook for a spear — his flock 
for a company of valiant knights — and his 
faithful shepherdess for as many fair ladies 
as he could get to witness his admirable 
matchless prowess." 

" Nay, prithee try me ere I am condemn- 
ed," answered the earl, laughingly. "I 
doubt hugely I should be so easily tired. 
For is there not a famous variety of amuse- 
ments ? Could I not delight myself by carv- 
ing of my true love's name wherever I could, 
till there should be found more Chloes on a 
tree than acorns ? and then would I not sing 
such songs against the rival swains of her 
unmatchable rare beauties, that they should 
be dumb ever after ; and play on my pipe 
till the feathered choristers of the grove 
would hold themselves silent to learn of my 
wondrous skill." 

" Perchance it may be so, my good lord," 
said the countess in the same good humor 



116 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



K but take it not as a want of courtesy in 
me, if I doubt the possibility of so great a 
marvel." 

" Now, without flattery, never met I so 
perfect a disbeliever," exclaimed Leicester, 
gallantly. " I would the fates had so or- 
dered it as to have made the Countess of 
Pembroke an Arcadian shepherdess, and I 
her scarce worthy, yet too happy swain. 
Methinks so enviable a lot exceedeth all 
honor of chivalry ; and whether in the valley 
or the grove, at the dance, or tending of my 
flock, believe me the enjoyment of such 
rare happiness would put out of mind, as 
things only to be de-spised, such poor plea- 
sures and distinctions as I have now in my 
possession." 

" I am bound to you, my lord, for enter- 
taining of such thoughts," replied his ac- 
complished companion, courteously ; " yet am 
I still of opinion, the noble place you now 
occupy would content you more than the 
most perfect state of shepherd life that is to 
be found. For as it is, you have in your 
power infinite opportunities of doing good, 
by affording your counsel and assistance to 
all such worthy objects as may require it ; 
whilst by your prominence in the public eye, 
you can, by acting as becomes your dignity, 
be an example of honor that ever honorable 
nature would be glad to copy." 

" Such I will strive to be with all my 
heart," exclaimed the Earl, with a seeming 
great sincerity. " Indeed the most pleasur- 
able part of the high station in which for- 
tune, rather than my poor ability, hath plac- 
ed me, I find to consist in the benefits I am 
enabled to confer on deserving persons. 
Nothing delighteth me more than to honor 
merit as it deserves ; and I would gladly go 
out. of my way any distance to meet with 
some worthy creature whom I could make 
happy." 

Every one was famoflsly pleased at hear- 
ing of so proper a speech from the Queen's 
favorite ; but such was his usual manner, 
and such his customary words. 

" Finding you, my good lord, in this 
happy mood," observed Sir Philip Sydney, 
" I would crave your countenance in behalf 
of a worthy friend of mine, who would be 
right proud of possessing it." ji 

" Say who he is, and be assured of Oils 
merits receiving proper attention at *my 
hands," said Leicester. 

"His name is Edmund Spenser," replied 
the other ; " and I look upon him to be as 
true a poet as ever wrote verse." 

"Prithee bring him to me whenever it 
suits you," said the Earl, in his most win- 
ning mannetr. " I am all impatient to be 



acquainted with one who hath acquired sucl 
high honor as to be so lauded of Sir Philip 
Sydney." 

" Believe me, my brother hath said no 
more than the worthiness of Master Spen* 
ser gives him title to," added the Countess. 
" As far as I am capable of judging, he is 
one whom future ages will delight to rever- 
ence." 

" I'faith, this Master Spenser hath great 
good fortune, methinks, to have his merits 
so approved by two such absolute judges," 
cried Leicester. " O' me life, I shall not be 
contenttill he number me among his friends. 
But thoikgh I am exceeding loth to leave 
such delectable society, I must fain hie me 
hence." 

He had scarce ut'ered these words when 
he feJt a nudge at his elbow, and, looking 
round, his eyes evidently met a familiar 
face, for, with a cheerful countenance, he 
called out, "Ha! Tarleton, what news?" 
The person he had so addressed, had a merry 
eye and a ruddy countenance ; and in figure 
stood rather under the middle size — the 
which was neatly garmented in a suit of 
Lincoln green. This was no other than 
Tarleton the player, who was in such es- 
teem of the Queen for his many witty jests, 
that it was thought of some he had as much 
influence with her as any man living. Be- 
ing so great a favorite, he was allowed to do 
much as he pleased ; and if his wit smacked 
of some sharpness, few were so unwise as 
outwardly to take offence at it. Then he 
had with him so odd a way of saying his 
drolleries, that he forced many to laugh who 
liked not being trifled with. 

" News, quotha !" replied the jester, after 
his comicalest manner ; " ay, great news, I 
warrant. An honest intelligencer of my ac- 
quaintance told me, my Lord of Leicester 
was about going on an embassy to Prester 
John, with a suit of motley for his wear, 
and a case of toothpicks to hide in his 
beard." 

" Marry, that is news indeed," answered 
Leicester, somewhat seriously ; " and per- 
adventure it came of the same honest intelli- 
gencer who assured me that one Tarleton, 
a player, stood in great likelihood of being 
committed to Bridewell for allowing of his 
wit to run foul of his discretion." 

" Nay, o' my life, that is no news !" ex- 
claimed the undaunted jester, " 1 nave heard 
it this ten year ; and the last time it was 
said in my hearing, there was added to it 
that my Lord of Leicester might have taken 
offence at the merry player, only the gencr- 
ousness of his nature put him above such 
ungraciousness. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



117 



** I tell thee what, Master Tarleton," said 
the Earl, taking the other's humor very pleas- 
antly, " there seemeth to be what learned 
mediciners call sympathy, in the effects of 
thy wit — for the weapon that makes the 
wound can as readily perform the cure." 

" O' my life, yes, an' it please you, my 
lord," replied the jester, making of a mock 
doleful face exceeding ludicrous. " But my 
curing hath in it more of the cook than the 
chirurgeon — for it seemeth to be ever a get- 
ting me into a famous pickle." Thereupon 
there was a manifest sign of laughing in 
every face that stood within ear-shot. 

" Peradventure that accounteth for the 
attic saltness of thy jests," observed Sir 
Philip Sydney. 

" Ay, and if he selleth his wit he must 
needs be a salt-cellar," added Lord Buek- 
hurst. 

" Troth, then, let those who are below the 
salt look to their manners," said Master 
Tarleton. "But touching this conceit of 
the salt, if it is so, I shall be forced to keep 
me a respectful distance, else will every 
lewd fellow be taking a pinch of me with 
which to savor his porridge." 

" Then will he have more wit in his por- 
ridge than ever he had in his head," said 
Leicester, good hamoredly. : ' Take such 
pinches as lovingly as thou canst, Master 
Jester, for niethinks 'tis this very saltness 
which keepeth thy wit so long good." 

u . I promise you," replied Master Tarle- 
ton. " But peradventure too much of that 
savor is like to get me the reputation of a 
dry wit." 

" Nay, before thou canst be properly dried, 
thou must stand a good hanging," re- 
joined the Earl, with a laugh in which all 
joined. 

" O' my life, I would as soon be put to the 
rack at once," said the Jester, " and, in truth, 
I protest against being used so piggishly." 

" Truly, thou art hard to please !" rejoined 
the Earl, and then graciously taking his 
farewell of the Countess and her party, he 
sauntered along on his way to the Queen's 
chamber. The courtiers thronged to pay 
their respects, and commanders, prelates, 
iadges, and other dignitaries, seemed all 
alike anxious to gain his attention. Some 
were petitioners for his influence, others 
came to thank him for some favor con- 
ferred, and to all he was alike courteous ; — 
listening patiently and answering gracious- 
ly ; and as he went, took with him the good 
wishes of those he left behind. Spying the 
beautiful Lady Rieh, encircled by her usual 
throng of admirers, he quickly made his way 
to her side, and soon proved himself tha most 



accomplished gallant of them all. The 
compliments of others were insipid, in com- 
parison with such as he offered, and the 
lovely object of them appeared to appreciate 
the distinction, for he received her most win- 
ning smiles. 

" Many take me to be of some wealth," 
observed he to her, in that resistless sweet 
passion he was so famed for ; " but w hen I 
make comparisons, I cannot help thinking 
myself in a very monstrous poverty. It is 
long since I have beheld the poorness of my 
state, and envied some their greater fortune ; 
yet I can say, in all honesty, were I Rich 
now, I should be rich indeed." 

" Truly, I know not who should thant 
you most for that pretty speech of yours, my 
lord or myself," replied the beautiful crea- 
ture, with one of her exquisitest looks. 

" I protest 'tis a very delicate choice con- 
ceit," said Sir Christopher Hatton, with his 
customary, elegance of manner, as he raised 
a gold pouncet box to his nose ; " infinitely 
worthy of my Lord of Leicester, his extreme 
sufficiency of wit ; and absolutely corre- 
sponding with my Lady Rich, her rare pro- 
digalness of merit." Whilst the young gal- 
lants around were endeavoring to impress 
this fine sentence on their memories, Tarle- 
ton the jester approached, and spying of Sir 
Christopher Hatton, he suddenly turned 
round and advanced backwards towards him, 
with every sign of a most serious courtesy, 
making a profusion of becks to a half blind 
old courtier in the distance, whereof the con- 
sequence was he presently stumbled against 
Sir Christopher, and trod on his toes. Now if 
anything would ruffle a man's temper, me- 
thinks it should be when he is essaying to 
make himself excessively agreeable to the 
loveliest woman of her age, one should drive 
against him awkwardly, and tread with some 
heaviness on his feet. All expected Sir 
Christopher would have been famously ruf- 
fled ; but the accomplished courtier smiled 
upon the Queen's jester, — as Tarleton turned 
round with a grave indifferent face, on the 
instant he had done what there is but small 
doubt he intended — and with a most winning 
graciousness apologised for having been in 
his way. 

" Nay, I hope I have not hurt you, sweet 
Sir Christopher !" exclaimed the merry play- 
er ; "1 was but of paying a proper courtesy 
to my Lord Bumble, and could not gue*s 
your worship was so nigh." 

'' T return you a bountiful load of thank- 
fulness for the wonderful friendliness of 
' your inquiries, worthy Master Tarleton," rs- 
j plied the text-book of compliment ; 1 wiii 
entomb such preciousness in my heart. Let 



118 



THE YOUTH OF SI.AKSPEARE. 



your excess of goudness be gratified in the 
conviction that I am in no way hurt." 

" O' my life, I did think I trod on your 
toes somewhat heavily," said the jester, with 
extreme seriousness. 

" Toes, worthy Master Tarleton," added 
the mirror of courtesy with one of his bland- 
est smiles, " belong only to vulgar persons. 
A gentleman hath no such pedal appurte- 
nances. It may be said of such a one that 
he hath a handsome foot," continued he, 
looking at, and moving one of his feet into 
the gracefullest positions; "but to say he 
hath feet, is no sort of phrase for the politer 
6ort ; and toes are altogether banished from 
courtly language." 

" Nay s if you are for depriving me of irty 
toes, I "must e'en take to my heels," an- 
swered the other, and thereupon made off 
from the circle with all speed. 

In the meantime the Earl of Leicester 
had whispered a quick succession of the 
delicatest flatteries into the ear of the smil- 
ing beauty he was addressing, which she 
seemed to receive, more as a homage long 
usage had accustomed her to, than from any 
particular excess of vanity in her nature. 
Thence he went to other lovely dames, 
where it was evident lie was no less wel- 
co.ne ; and finally departed to the Queen's 
chamber, beyond all contradiction the most 
admired, the most courted, and the most 
honored of all the gallant company assem- 
bled in that goodly chamber. 

It was evening of the same day, when in 
a thick grove, at a bow-shot from the palace, 
a gallant, in a large horseman's cloak and a 
broad slouched hat, which completely con- 
cealed him from observation, was seen walk- 
ing from tree to tree, backwards and for- 
wards ; sometimes whistling, sometimes 
humming a tune, but continually looking in 
one particular direction, as if he was in ex- 
pectation of some person coming that way. 
Anon, he would grow impatient, and utter 
something that smacked of an oath; then 
he would wrap his cloak closer round him, 
lean against a tree, and amuse himself 
awhile by digging of his heels into the soil. 
In these pursuits he had been engaged for 
some length of time, wk?n he became aware 
of the approach of some person, disguised 
after a like fashion as himself. It was evi- 
dent, these were the same two persons that 
had stood together under the shadow upon 
the terrace of Kenilworth Castle. They 
exhibited a similar caution, and they behaved 
with a like mystery. 

" What news V inquired the new comer, 
in a low voice ; *' hast secured the prize ? 



Hast not let her slip through thy fingers a 
second time?" 

" Never was prize so secure, my lord," 
answered the other. 

" Good ! Exceeding good !" exclaimed 
the noble, as if with a wonderful excess of 
gratification. 

" The former plot failed not from any lack 
of cunning in the planning," added his com- 
panion; " I was baulked of my success, just 
when I had made secure of it — a murrain 
on the pitiful fools who were so meddle- 
some ! But, in this instance, fortune hath 
been more kind ; and, though not without 
exceeding painstaking, I have been free from 
all possibility of any such pestilent inter- 
ference." 

" Then make sure, fortune shall be 
thy friend from this time forward," replied 
the one addressed as my lord. "But art 
sure none know into whose hands she hath 
fallen !" 

" They could not have the slightest guess 
of it, I have managed matters so well," an- 
swered the other. "None saw her taken, 
none know where she is gone ; and I have 
given her in charge to one, who is too per- 
fect in her lesson, to allow of her prisoner's 
having knowledge of at whose suit she hath 
been arrested." 

" I approve thy discretion infinitely," ob- 
served the nobleman ; " I would not be known 
in the business, on any account, either to her 
or any other. But how doth she look, and 
how takes she her sudden removal from her 
friends ?" 

" 'Tis beyond all art of mine to express 
her looks, my lord," replied Ids associate ; 
" nought but your own eyes can do her ex- 
quisite perfections justice. Beautiful as she 
was, she hath made such progress in come- 
liness, that her present appearance putteth 
clean out of memory the graces she was 
then possessed of." 

" O' my life, then she must be of a most 
rare creature," exclaimed the other delight- 
edly. 

" Truly, she is, my lord, and were I io 
any way richer than I am, I would wager a 
dozen marks you will readily acknowledge 
on beholding here, there lives not her peer 
in this world." 

"Well, here is something for thy dili- 
gence," said his companion, giving him a 
well filled purse, which he took very readily. 
" But 'tis only a token of what shall follow, 
find I the original to come up to thy lim- 
ning." 

" Would I were as sure of all other 
things," exclaimed the other. " But I pray 
you take good speed in your coming, for 8M 



THE YOUTH OF SIIAKSPEARE. 



119 



hath been made so curious about you, that 
if you come not straight, I know not what 
her impatience may lead her to." 

" Be sure the first moment I can without 
suspicion absent myself from court, I will 
fly like a hawk," replied the noble. " But 
in the meanwhile let her lack nothing by 
way of amusement to make her content with 
her condition. The players may be had to 
entertain her, or any other pastime she is 
likely to take pleasure in. Spare neither 
expense nor trouble. Have ever ready such 
variety of enjoyments that she can get tired 
of none ; and so possess no time to reflect 
on any other matter, save the bountifulness 
of the provider." 

" It shall be done, my lord, without de- 
lay." 

" And mark me," continued his com- 
panion. 

" Ay, my lord," answered the other. 

" Let Mistress Crupper take proper heed 
that this sweet angel of mine firmly be- 
lieveth herself to be amongst persons of 
worship. Let her manners be in accor- 
dance with her assumed station, at the 
same time that in every point she behaveth 
with the most delicate respect to her fair 
prisoner." 

" I have already so ordered it," replied his 
associate ; " and Moll knoweth her own in- 
terests too well to mar them by any misbe- 
having. I do assure you, my lord, she play- 
eth her part in the choicest fashion — never 
a lady in the land could do it better." 

" Provided that be the case, she shall 
have a suitable reward," said the nobleman. 
" But I must be gone. Haste back, and 
keep her in continual impatience of my com- 
ing. But above all things be cautious my 
name be not dropped on any consideration, 
nor ought done which might in any manner 
point to me as holding the slightest share in 
such proceedings. 

" Rely on it, my lord," answered his com- 
panion, and so saying both departed their 
several ways, the one chuckling at the 
weight of the purse, which had rewarded 
his infamous proceedings, and the other 
congratulating himself on the apparent suc- 
cess of his villainous agen.t. 



CHAPTER XVH. 

I have been readie at you hand 

To grant whatever you might crave, 
I have both waged life and land 

Your love and good will for to have. 
I bought thee kerchers to thy head 

That were wrought fine and gallantly, 
I kept thee booth at boord and bed, 

Which cost my purse well favoredly. 
I bought thee peticotes of the best, 

The cloth as fine as might be ; 
I gave thee jewels for thy chest, 

And ali this cost I spent on thee. 

Ballad of Lady Greensleeves. 

Thou art a shameless villain ! 
A thing out of the overcharge of nature ; 
Sent like a thick cloud to disperse a plague 
Upon weak catching woman ! Such a tyrant 
That for his lust would sell away his subjects, 
Ay, all his heaven hereafter. 

Beaumont and Fletcheb 

Mabel was left in as bad hands as it 
could be possible for her to fall into. It is 
a question whether so vile a pair could else- 
where have been met with — a matter of 
huge congratulation to all virtuous minds. 
These two were thoroughly heartless, be- 
cause thoroughly selfish — lost to all sense 
of shame from being deaf to every murmur 
of conscience — careless of report, knowing 
they had no character to lose, and wishing 
only to live, out of extreme disinclination to 
die. They had been in companionship with 
each other for years, believing such villainy 
as they possessed would only be tolerated by 
those who were most familiar with it ; but 
their bad passions were ever breaking forth, 
and it appeared as if they were allowed to 
live, the better to remind each other of the 
monstrous baseness of their behavior. 

All that such wretches could do, aided by 
the most consummate hypocrisy, and with 
every help unbounded wealth could procure, 
was essayed to render the pure mind of the 
poor foundling accessible to the villainy that 
had been devised against her. Turn where 
she would her eyes met images of voluptu- 
ousness — and at all times her ears were 
invaded with meanings of opposition to all 
honorable notions ; but the extreme craft of 
this, overthrew itself. The mind of the gen- 
tle Mabel was so essentially pure, that al- 
though it would admit readily every image 
of beauty, such characters came there com- 
pletely divested of ought of an objectionable 
shape, and her nature was so perfectly in- 
nocent, that indelicacy of any sort was to 
her a foreign language, which she heard but 
could not understand. Whereof the conse* 



/ 



tao 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



quence was she remained despite of all this 
great expenditure of subtlety, as chaste in 
heart as the day she first entered those pol- 
luted walls. 

If anything could lead a woman from her 
own integrity, the incense which was con- 
tinually being offered to her vanity, in artful 
praises of her person, and in the constantly 
varying costliness of its decorations, might 
have sufficed ; but the vanity of the poor 
foundling seemed so remotely seated, that 
this precious artillery never touched it. — 
She took the flattery as said out of good- 
ness ; and wore the apparel as sent out of 
kindness. 

Many days had passed and Mabel still 
remained unconscious of her danger, and 
in less anxiousness concerning of the old 
knight and the good dame, than she was at 
first, because her assumed friend, the fictiti- 
ous Lady Comfit, had assured her she had 
informed them of her safety and comfort. 
Her only desire was that the youthful sleep- 
er, who had got himself so roughly used for 
her sake, might not have been much hurt, 
and that she should be allowed some early 
opportunity of thanking him for his extreme 
readiness to help her in her need. She was 
rarely left alone, and scarce a moment was 
allowed her for reflection : and the conver- 
sation of her crafty companion kept her in 
a constant state of marvel, admiration, and 
curiousness concerning of the princely gen- 
tleman who had, as she thought, taken such 
strange means to show his love for her. 
One day, as it were by accident, she had 
been left by herself, and naturally fell to 
musing on the mystery of those transactions 
in which she had been made so prominent a 
feature. She sat clothed in all the splendor 
of Venice and Milan — and it might be truly 
said her beauty more became her tiring than 
her tiring improved her beauty — her arm 
rested on the side of the richly carved chair, 
with the full sleeve falling back disclosing 
its perfect whiteness and symmetry, clasped 
by a bracelet of purest gold and jewels, and 
her fair face was supported by her hand, of 
which the delicate fingers were half lost in 
the meshes of her glossy hair. Her radiant 
eyes were fixed upon the fresh rushes at 
her feet, but their long silken lashes gave 
so soft an expression to the deep sweet 
thoughtfulness of her exquisite countenance, 
that it is doubtful their full gaze could have 
appeared more admirable. 

Thus she thought over the recent events, 
bewildered with their strangeness, and per- 

Slexed as to their purport, till she was sud- 
enly startled from her reverie. 
" Heavens L how exquisitely beautiful !" 



exclaimed a deep-toned voice; and, looking up 
to her exceeding astonishment, she observ- 
ed a tall person, enveloped in a huge cloak, 
and his head covered with a broad beaver 
hat, consequently she could see of him noth- 
ing but his face, which seemed nobly fea- 
tured, and the eyes lustrous with a very 
passionate adoration. She had scarce had 
a moment for thinking who this stranger 
could be, and what he wanted, when the 
cloak and hat fell at his feet, and she beheld 
a stately figure, clad in such magnificence 
as she had had no imagination of. The de- 
licatest white silk, daintily embroidered with 
gold, formed his hose ; and his doublet was of 
a light pink, fancifully ornamented with the 
choicest pearls, having the sleeves quaintly 
trimmed and slashed with amber satin, like 
unto the round full part of his trunks. His 
ribbon garters and shoe roses were of a cor- 
responding costliness ; and as some sign of 
his nobility, he wore the order of ihe garter 
round his leg, and a St. George gold chain, 
of the costliest character, pendan< frc\i his 
neck. 

It might be imagined that before such ex- 
cessive splendor the poor foundling would 
have been somewhat abashed, and that he.r 
gentle nature would have sunk before the 
ardor of his gaze ; but this was far from the 
case. The look, the manner, the appear- 
ance of the stranger, convinced her that he 
was no other than her princely lover, of 
whom she had heard so much ; and the only 
sign she gave of his presence was rising 
from her seat the moment his nobility stood 
confessed. No royal queen could ever have 
received the homage of her courtiers with a 
truer majesty, than did the gentle Mabel 
stand before the enamored glances of this 
magnificent noble. 

" Nay, I beseech thee, do not stir 1" mur- 
mured he in a most passionate gallant man- 
ner, as he took her hand, and pressed it 
tenderly in his own. " I regret having dis- 
turbed such a miracle of loveliness, and yet 
I could not, had I strove ever so, have re- 
frained from expressing in some measure 
the intenseness of my admiration. Much as 
I had heard of thy marvellous beauty, and 
deeply as I had been impressed with the 
glimpse I had of it hi the garden of Kenil- 
worth, I was totally unprepared for such 
ravishing perfections as I beheld when, un- 
noticed, I softly entered this chamber. He 
who held the apple when the three god- 
desses disclosed their rival graces to his ad- 
miring eye, could -have seen, in all their 
moving loveliness, nought half so worthy of 
pre-eminence as then met my wondering 
and most enamored gaze-" 



\ 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



191 



* My lord, for such I believe you are styl- 
ed," replied Mabel, with a simple courtesy 
that became her better than all art of com- 
pliment; "you are pleased to say this, as 
you have been pleased to show me other 
signs of a like civilness in you ; and for 
these, believe me, I am as truly grateful as 
ever heart was." 

" O' my life, it delighteth me infinitely to 
hear thee express thyself so well disposed 
towards me," answered h%r companion rap- 
turously kissing of her fair hand. " But 
what I have done is nought to what the 
greatness of my love shall lead me to. But 
prithee tell me the happy subject of thy deep 
study." 

" Indeed it was no other than yourself, my 
lord," answered the poor foundling very 
readily. 

" How proud am I of having so rare a 
student !" exclaimed the other, looking fondly 
in her face, and pressing her hands with a 
similar aflectionateness. " How dost like 
the volume ? wilt get it by heart ?" 

" In my then thinking, I was seeking the 
cause for my having been put by you in this 
place, 1 ' answered Mabel. 

" The cause, my sweet life !" cried the 
gallant, as if in some extreme astonishment ; 
" why, what else cause can there be than 
thy most exquisite self? Look on those 
lustrous eyes, observe that delicate cheek, 
regard that eloquent and delicious mouth, or 
take the perfectness of those matchless fea- 
tures and peerless shape combined, and note 
if they contain not such prodigal cause of 
love as might warrant any such behavior in 
a lover, as that I have been forced to take 
advantage of." 

" Methinks, my lord, love might be better 
shown," observed the gentle foundling. 

" In some cases, doubtless," replied her 
companion ; " but not where the lover is so 
circumstanced as am I. I have essayed in 
all manner of things thou shouldst meet / 
such respect as true love delighteth to show. 
Thy tiring is of the noblest, thy lodging the 
most sumptuous that could be had, and thy 
fare the delicatest that wealth and skill could 
unite in producing. Thou hast been waited 
on as became the guest of a prince ; and so 
gallantly entertained as might be shown to 
an enthroned queen !" 

" Truly I have, and I thank you right 
heartily, my lord — yet " 

" Dost lack anything ? Hast any desire ? 
Hast aught proper been forgotten ?" con- 
tinued the noble, with increasing earnest- 
ness. 

u Indeed no, I have store of things of 
every sort, — but— —" 



" Dost not like the dwelling ? thou shalt 
be removed to a palace," added her com* 
panion without allowing her to finish her 
sentence. " Dost not approve of thy tiring, 
all Italy shall be searched for costiler stuffs 1 
Hast fault to find with thy attendants, thou 
shalt have such honorable persons as thou 
cannot help approving of? Or is anything 
amiss with thy fare, the skilfullest cooks, 
and the daintiest cates shall be fetched from 
all parts of Christendom, to give thee better 
entertainment ?" 

" Truly there is no need," she replied ; 
" methinks I should be wondrous discontent 
seemed I not satisfied with the bountiful 
great splendor with which I am surrounded ; 
still there is one thing I would have you do, 
which surely you cannot avoid doing, if you 
have for me the exceeding love you have 
just expressed." 

" Name it," said her companion, in an 
impassioned manner. "If it taketh up my 
whole fortune — -which is considered to be in 
some excess— or requireth all my influence 
— which is said to be second to none in the 
kingdom — whatever thou dost require shall 
be done on the instant." 

" Return me to my friends," answered 
Mabel. 

"What!" exclaimed the gallant, evidently 
having expected from her something very 
different, " wouldst have me, ere I have 
scarce had an hour's acquaintance with so 
inestimable a treasure, to send it away where 
perchance I may never see it again ?" 

" I doubt not you could see me at all pro- 
per times, with worthy Sir Thomas Lucy's 
permission," said the poor foundling. . 

"Believe me, my dear life, there is no 
possibility of such a thing, else should I 
have preferred doing so," observed her com- 
panion, with a famous earnestness. " There 
is such absolute reason for what has been 
done, as would convince any, were I allow- 
ed to say it ; but at the present I must needs 
be dumb on the matter. Give me but fair 
trial, and if, after some time, thou shouldst 
desire again to see thy friends, thou shalt 
go, and willingly." 

" I thank you for that assurance, my lord," 
replied Mabel, somewhat comforted. " In 
very truth I am most anxious to return home, 
with as little tarrying as possible, and you 
will make me more bound to you, by help- 
ing me in my wish, than could you by de- 
taining me, though you furnished my stay 
with the honorablest entertainment in your 
power." 

" I beseech thee, my fair queen, move ma 
not to it at this present," continued her 
noble gallant, very passionately " ThcMi 



133 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



knowest not what great travail hath been 
mine for thy sweet sake, since I first had 
glimpse of thy enchanting graces. Allow 
me some solace after my so long trouble; 
believe me night or day hath been one con- 
tinual darkness with me, in which my hopes 
would appear like stars, in bright assurance 
the sunrise of my happiness was nigh at 
hand ; and yet it came not, till my heart 
was nigh upon being weary with so much 
longing. Nought but the remembrance of 
those dazzling beauties, as they came upon 
me, like a sudden flash of heaven to a poor 
heathen, kept me in countenance with my- 
self; for that remembrance brought with it 
such good warrant of gentle treatment, of 
excellent kind sympathy, and of generous 
sweet affection, as a nature well disposed to. 
reward the infinite sufferings of unbounded 
love, is ever possessed of. Let it not be I 
have rested on a broken reed." 

" I should be loath to deal harshly with 
you, my lord," replied the simple foundling ; 
" nor am I in any way so given towards 
any one. Yet I see not I could give you 
any relief stayed I here ever so." 

" Be assured, sweetest, nothing is so 
easy," observed her companion, gazing on 
nor as enamoredly as though he had put his 
whole heart and soul into a glance. " Let 
those entrancing eyes discourse with mine 
the true language they were made to ex- 
press, till volumes of loving meaning beam 
in every look; twine those delicate arms 
around me as I would use mine own, till 
heart throb fondly against heart in natural 
unison, and every nerve throughout our en- 
amored natures thrill with the same soft 
ecstacy — and bring me hither those delici- 
ous lips that make the ruby pale, and look 
more tempting than the ripest ruddiest cher- 
ry, to refresh my thirsty soul with the pre- 
cious rapturous, exquisite sweet balm with 
which they are bedewed." 

" Indeed, my lord, I " 

" Behold me here thy poor petitioner," 
continued the enamored nobleman, kneeling 
on one knee at the feet of the gentle Mabel, 
with such a look and with such a manner 
few women could have resisted. " Note to 
how mean a strait my greatness is reduced — 
see the equal of princes, the very humblest 
of slaves. Dear, excellent fair creature ! My 
whole being is bound up in the gaining of 
thy choice affections. Show me some sign — 
a smile, a word, a look — my case is not en- 
tirely desperate and I will fill the air thou 
makest holy with thy presence, with my un- 
ceasing love and very earnest thankful- 
Bess." 

Thus proceeded this accomplished gallant 



with the innocent gentle Mabel — now ap» 
pealing to her sympathies, — now endeavor- 
ing to awaken her pride a moment after 
striving with equal earnestness to excite her 
vanity, and anon straining every nerve to 
move her ambition ; and thus he continued 
with the most passionate assiduity for several 
days, breathing into her ear the most delicate 
flattery, and exhausting every source of en- 
tertainment likely, to dazzle or captivate an 
inexperienced tender woman. Save with 
her sympathies he scarce made any advance, 
which made him marvel infinitely, for he was 
the most irresistable lover that ever sought a 
fair lady's affections, and had achieved more 
triumphs over the sex than had any half 
dozen of his acquaintance. There was not 
a turn of their hearts with which he seemed 
not familar, and he appeared to know the 
cunningest baits to draw up their desires. 
But this exceeding knowledge was derived 
from the court circles, or those who took 
after them in manner, where such gifts as he 
possessed' could scarce fail of having a most 
absolute influence. The mere fine ladies, 
or those eager to be thought so, readily gave 
way to his many fascinations, but the poor 
foundling was of a very different sort. There 
was in her nature a marvellous combination 
of simplicity and pride — the one kept her 
ignorant of the treaciery of her companion 
— the other received his delusive attentions 
as though they were her just right and title. 
Something of this she had shown when in 
company with Sir Valentine, when the 
modesty of her apparel seemed out of place 
with the air of graceful dignity and easy 
self-possession with which she shared in the 
court-like converse of the young knight ; — 
but now, clothed in all the delicate splendor 
of the times, she listened to the dangerous 
homage of her princely gallaDt, with a man* 
ner so noble as must have convinced any 
spectator she took them more as proper res- 
pect than as a matter for gratification. 

Her noble lover's ecstacies availed him 
nothing — the fondness of his behavior and 
discourse made as little impression — but his 
unceasing efforts to afford her by the most 
lavish expenditure, signs of the unbounded 
estimation in which she was held by him, 
were accepted with gratitude ; and the seem- 
ing terribleness of his sufferii gs when her 
behavior put him into a despairing mood, 
were regarded with a natural sympathy. 
Here she was in some danger, for there ia 
no such nigh relations to love as gratitude 
and pity. 

In the meanwhile William Shakspeare 
having at last met with Sir Valentine, in- 
stant proceedings were taken to endeavor ta 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



193 



< *aoe out the place to which the gentle Mabel 
had been carried. Nothing could exceed the 
manner in which the young knight was 
moved at the relation of his fair mistress's 
abduction. All the chivalry of his nature 
was up in arms in a moment, and he was for 
chasing the villains to the uttermost corners 
of the earth. With the feelings with which 
he had regarded her many moving graces, 
bo that she had become to him the sovereign 
of his heart's wishes, he felt bound by every 
principle of knighthood to peril life and limb 
in her service, and mounting his palfrey he 
rode in every direction to find some traces of 
her flight. He was at last so fortunate as to 
meet with the man elsewhere spoken of, who 
had seen her borne past him, and had watched 
her direction, whilst he could keep her in 
sight ; and with this intelligence he sat off as 
soon as he could from his kinsman's house, 
accompanied only by his favorite companion, 
he youthful Shakspeare, riding of a grey 
gelding, who was quite as eager as himself 
to go on such an errand. 

The feelings of these two were as different 
as their different natures could make them. 
The young knight in the fresh bloom of his 
manhood, saw beauty only as it was expected 
a soldier should see it — as something worthy 
of being honored by the honorablest achieve- 
ments. The young student in the first soft 
glow of youth, saw beauty only as in such 
cases it might be seen of a student — as some- 
thing to worship at a humble distance with 
the purest and noblest thoughts. The one 
believing it to be his duty, would have boldly 
proclaimed the name of Mabel as first in his 
esteem wherever he went, — the other feeling 
it to be his nature, would have thought it sa- 
crilege to have mentioned her name in idle 
company, although his estimation of her was 
not a whit less than was that of his compa- 
nion. 

They proceeded on in the course directed, 
at all reasonable opportunities Sir Valentine 
entertaining of his young associate with a 
very gallant discourse concerning the doings 
of certain famous knights in love with no- 
table fair ladies, and ever and anon, season- 
ing it with divers pretty passages out of Pe- 
trarcha, his sonnets of love, to which the 
youthful poet would seriously incline his ear, 
get explained to him whatever he knew not 
the meaning of, and observe, question, and 
reply upon all he heard, with such spright- 
liness of wit and ingenuity of learning, as 
both astonished and delighted his fellow 
traveller. 

They passed all manner of pleasant man- 
sions, with excellent parks of deer, and beheld 
the country round showing a thousand signs 



of the decay of summer, yet still possessing 
so much of greenness as gave it a seraely 
aspect. Occasionally, they would meet with 
a brave company going a hawking, each with 
a favorite bird on the wrist, and riding on an 
ambling palfrey, accompanied by attendants 
carrying of other hawks together, perched in 
a circle, all hooded in their fairest gesses and 
Milan bells, ready to be cast oft at a moment's 
notice. Anon, they would hear the loud 
" Soho !" of some eager huntsman, and they 
would rein in their steeds awhile to see the 
goodly sight of the hounds in 'full chase, and 
the gallant assemblage of men and horses 
speeding after them over hedge and ditch, 
hill and hollow, with some a tumbling in this 
place, others leaping in that, here a steed gal- 
lopping without his rider, and there a rider 
running to catch his steed : and a little way 
further, they would come upon divers honest 
anglers, pursuing of their delicate sport by 
the sedgy margin of the brook, to the mAnifest 
catching of sundry luce, greyling, perch, 
bream, and dace, then uselessly flapping of 
their tails in the angler's basket. 

The partridges hid their heads among the 
stubble — the snipe lurked unseen in the 
water-courses — the wild-ducks floated in 
flocks over the broad ponds and marshy lakes, 
and the great heron lay in her haunt, amid 
the thick reeds of the same waters. On a 
branch of a withered old tree upon the banks, 
the gaudy kingfisher was making a choice 
repast, and in his hole deep in the sandy soil 
beneath, the greedy otter was busying him- 
self with a like occupation. Great companies 
of small birds seemed pursuing of each other 
over the open fields, and far over head the 
noisy rooks gathered their black bands to 
ravage the distant country. As the travelers 
skirted a wood, they observed the nimble 
conies running into their holes, or a stray 
leveret rushing hither and thither, without 
knowing where, scared by the sound of the 
horses feet. Presently, a young pigeon was 
noticed plying of her wings with the desperate 
eagerness of despair, as she left the wood for 
the open country ; but a murderous hawk fol- 
lowed in her track, and as she sank panting 
with agony behind a tree, he swept down 
upon her swifter than the wind, and in the 
same minute fixed his sharp talons in her 
heart. 

Having from many of the laboring coun- 
try-people continued, as they proceeded, to 
gain such intelligence as still led them on, 
they had gone a famous distance, but full of 
ardor to accomplish their adventure, they 
pushed forward, regardless of all else, save 
the rescue of the gentle Mabel. It so hap« 
pened, that at last, to their constant inqui 



124 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



ries, nothing profitable was gained. No one 
had seen any such persons as were des- 
cribed to them: Finding this to be the case, 
they retraced their steps towards the place 
. where they obtained the latest information, 
with the idea, that if any house Jay conve- 
nient, it was probable there she had been 
carried. They now rode slowly, and took 
close scrutiny of the neighborhood. After 
so doing for some time, they spied a fair 
house down in a hollow, almost hid up with 
trees, and completely surrounded with a high 
wall. Within less than a quarter of a mile 
of it was a small village, of some half-dozen 
houses, most distinguishable of which was 
the open smithy, the little inn, and a shop 
for the sale of all manner of things needed 
in such a place. It was thought advisable 
to make for this village at once, as being the 
likeliest spot to gain the necessary intelli- 
gence, and where they could get refresh- 
ments for themselves and beasts, whilst they 
made their inquiries. 

As they rode into the yard, William Shaks- 
peare caught a glimpse of a man, in whose 
unpleasing features he immediately recog- 
nized the villain who had struck him when 
he seized his companion. The fellow saw 
not who had observed him, for he was busy 
playing at bowls under a shed with divers 
other persons. The youthful poet resolved 
on saying nothing of this discovery till a 
more fitting opportunity presented itself, 
therefore quietly followed the example of the 
young knight, in dismounting, giving his 
palfrey in charge to the landlord, and enter- 
ing the inn. Upon sitting himself in a 
chamber to which he and Sir Valentine were 
shown, he observed a decent sort of a man, 
of a middle age, seated on a settle, with a 
book in his hand, and a jug of ale on the 
table before him. As William Shakspeare 
took himself to make a hearty meal of what 
was set before him, he gave another glance 
at the person with the book, and another 
after that, and he still thought, as he had ima- 
gined when he first came into the room, that 
the countenance was familiar to him. Sir 
Valentine, finding a stranger with them, was 
pondering with himself whether he should 
abstain from seeming curious, which might 
perchance defeat his object, or attempt cau 



in a pleased surprise — " yes, it must be. O 
my life, 'tis either Will Shakspeare or hia 



very person. However, it so fell out, that 
the stranger raised his eyes from the book, 
on which he seemed as intent as though he 
were the most scholarly person that had ever 
lived, and thereupon encountered the some- 
what earnest gaze of the youthful Shaks- 
peare. 
" Why, surely !" exclaimed the stranger, 



" 'Tis myself, worthy Master Burbage, 
replied the young poet, proceeding quickly 
to take the proffered hand of the father of 
his friend and school-fellow. 

" Glad to see thee, by'r lady !" said the 
other, giving his young acquaintance a 
hearty shake of the hand. 

" And how do thy excellent parents — and 
how is Dick, my son — and how are all my 
honest friends at Stratford ?" The youthful 
Shakspeare quickly gave him the intelli- 
gence he required ; Sir Valentine remaining 
silent, yet glad they were known .to^ach 
other. 

" But what hath brought you here, worthy 
Master Burbage ?" inquired the young poet 
at last. 

" Ey, what, indeed !" replied the player, 
somewhat dolefully. " 'Sprecious ! I would 
I had never come nigh the place. Methinks 
I cannot help getting myself into a famous 
trouble on account of it, which may spoil 
my fortune ever after." 

" Alack, that is woeful news !" observed 
William Shakspeare. •' But, I pray you, 
tell me how that is so like to be ?" 

" Why, this is it," answered Master Bur- 
bage : "I have been sent down with my 
company to play stage plays and interludes 
of the entertainment of some ladies living in 
a house hard by." 

" I pray you, tell me if the fellow in green, 
now playing at bowls, belongeth to that 
house ?" inquired the young poet, very 
earnestly. 

" Out of all doubt, he doth," replied the 
player. " He is the serving-man of my 
Lady Arabella Comfit." 

" The house hath an ancient look with it, 
and lieth hid among trees somewhat to the 
left of this ?" observed his youthful friend ; 
and at hearing this, Sir Valentine listened 
with a very singular curiousness. 

" Ay, that is the place," said Master Bur- 
bage, a little impatiently. " Now, we have 
been ordered to get ourselves perfect in a 
new play by the next day after to-morrow at 
noon, to play before this noble lady and her 
friends, at her own house ; and as we are 



tiously to make the necessary inquiries of this all intent upon studying our parts, a certain 



boy of our company who playeth principal 
woman, hath the ill hap to be taken with a 
desperate illness; and we know not what 
to do on account of it, for we cannot play 
without him ; and it is impossible for him to 
assist us in any manner, he is in so bad a 
state." 
William Shakspeare, mused on their isv 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



126 



diligence f»r some minutes, then asked 
sundry questions concerning the part the 
eick boy was to have played, which Master 
Burbage showed him by the book he had in 
his hand ; and afterwards, both to the sur- 
prise of Sir Valentine and the other, offered, 
on condition Master Burbage should pass 
off himself and his companion as of his com- 
pany, he would himself diligently essay the 
playing of the part the sick boy ought to 
have played. Drowning men catch at straws ; 
and just so eagerly did Master Burbage avail 
himself of this offer — promised what was re- 
quired, and, moreover, offered to give the 
volunteer such instructions in the playing 
of the part as might be necessary for him to 
know. Upon the first opportunity, William 
Shakspeare told Sir Valentine his reasons 
for having done as he had ; with the which 
the latter was so greatly satisfied, that he 
became a player on the sudden, with as 
much willingness as he would have entered 
a. battle field. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

Come, I'll be out of this ague, 
For to live thus is not indeed to live ; 
It is a mockery and abuse of life ; 
I will not henceforth save myself by halves ; 
Loose all or nothing. 

Webster. 

Paul. Thou shall not go in liberty to thy grave, 

For one night a sultana is my slave. 
Mustapha. A terrible little tyranness. 

Massinger. 
But though this mayden tendre were of age, 
Yet in the brest of hire virginitee 
There was enclosed sad and ripe corage. 

Chaucer. 

Master Burbage was delighted at a re- 
hearsal at finding not only how well his 
young friend became his petticoats, but how 
truly and gracefully he enacted the different 
scenes in which he was to play. Certes 
William Shakspeare was not a player for 
the first time, as witness his early playing 
of Gammer Gurton's Needle, and divers oth- 
er interludes with his schoolfellows Green, 
• Burbage, Hemings, Condell ; but he felt 
there was a monstrous difference betwixt 
doing of such things in the manner of school- 
boys, for their own amusement only, and at- 
tempting it in the fashion of real players for 
the entertainment of a gallant company. 
But by the aid of Master Burbage he got 
over much of the difficulty. 

The play appeared cunningly writ with 



no other end than to lead to the undoing of 
the gentle Mabel. At least so thought Sir 
Valentine and his youthful friend ; and it 
was agreed between them the young knight 
should play one of the minor characters in 
the which there was little to say or do, but 
excellent opportunity of Sir Valentine's no- 
ting who were of the company, and if such 
persons as they expected should be among 
them, it afforded a mean for her recognizing 
him, and so knowing friends were near. 
This was done in case she should not know 
again the features of William Shakspeare, 
as he thought it possible she might not. 
There was another incident in the plot, but 
this the young player kept to himself. 

The time arrived, and the players were 
ready. Master Burbage was encouraging 
his youthful companion with great store of 
praise, who, dressed in feminine apparel, 
was to personate a young country girl. In 
the first scene a noble lover appears, ac- 
quainting his confidant how he had seen 
such perfection in womanhood, as he must 
sigh his heart away for, was he not allowed 
her sweet society to ease his pain, where- 
upon in pity of his lord's dolorous moan, the 
other is made to offer to carry her off on the 
instant, to the which, seeing no other way 
of having her, the passionate lover gives 
his reluctant consent. Then followed an 
attempt to carry off the damsel, with her 
rescue by the interference of her friends. 
Here the young player came upon the stage, 
which was one end of a large chamber, the 
players coming in by a door at each side. 
At the other end he observed four persons 
sitting, but to his amazeme* they were all 
masked? as persons of quality often were. 
The first near him was a lady of a most 
graceful figure, dressed in as great magnifi- 
cence as he had seen Queen Elizabeth at 
Kenilworth. The next was a gallant, in 
apparel equally gorgeous, who occasionally 
turned from the lady to speak to another 
gallant less nobly clad, sitting on the other 
side of him, and beyond him was another 
lady very richly garmented, but in no com- 
parison with the first. 

Whether the lady so bountifully attired 
was the fair creature of whom they were in 
search he had no means of knowing, for she 
gave no sign of recognition at his appear- 
ance. When Sir Valentine came on the 
stage she started somewhat, and asked some 
questions of her companion, and appeared 
to take greater interest in the play. Then 
was enacted her being carried off from her 
home, to the house of a kinswoman to the 
noble gallant's confidant. Here the coun- 
try maid was seen clothed in the richest 



120 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



stuffs and jewels, and paid all manner of 
honorable attention. At the sight of Sir 
Valentine, again the youthful lady gazed on 
him with more earnestness than she did be- 
fore, and her interest in the play evidently 
grew deeper and deeper. After this the 
princely lover entered, and with the fondest 
rhetoric implored the love of the seeming 
Mabel, till he so moved her, as it appeared, 
she was content to promise him all manner 
of happiness, to his infinite contentation. 
To end all, there was to be a soliloquy to be 
spoken by the heroine, in which she was to 
applaud herself to the echo for her gener- 
ousness> in behalf of a gentleman who had 
shown towards her such extreme honor, and 
vow to be his true love, and his alone ever 
after, till death should put asunder their 
mutual loving hearts. 

This the players considered the difficult- 
est passage of the whole, to be done with 
proper effect. As yet their new companion 
had conducted himself beyond their expec- 
tations ; but this long soliloquy was a diffi- 
cult part for the ablest ; and fears were en- 
tertained he might lose himself in it, and so 
break down. To prevent this as much as 
possible, Master Burbage stationed himself 
at one of the open doors, so as not to be in 
sight of the audience, to prompt him in case 
he was at a loss. There was the fictitious 
Mabel, in all the splendor of her supposed 
greatness, and there stood the anxious 
prompter with book in hand, hoping with all 
his might the play would end as well as it 
had proceeded. The prompter gave the 
cue, but to his extreme astonishment the 
young player ^)oke words clean different. 
The prompter in an agony of dread»that all 
would be marred, gave out the cue again 
somewhat louder, but still the young player 
proceeded with a speech as opposite to that 
he ought to have said as two different things 
could be. Horror-struck, the poor player 
cast down his book, and began pulling of 
his hair, kicking the ground, and muttering 
imprecations against the author of his ruin, 
as he imagined the youthful Shakspeare to 
be, that all the players eame marvelling to 
see what had produced such strange effects. 

But if Master Burbage was so moved, 
not less so was the lady nighest to the stage. 
Her three companions were engaged in 
earnest converse, without paying the slight- 
est attention to what was passing elsewhere. 
The intentness of the three to the subject 
of their converse, did not escape the notice 
of the young player ; and though he sus- 
pected the fair deity of his dreams was the 
lady who paid such unceasing attention to 
the play, he essayed to have some certain 



knowledge of it by a device of his oww 
Therefore instead of speaking the prcpe. 
soliloquy, he spoke the following passage 
which he had written to say in its place, iJ 
circumstances served : — 

" Now with my heart let me hold conference. 
This lord, he speaks me fair, he clothes me fine 
He entertains me honorably and well ; 
But how know I his purport in all this ? 
Is it in honesty, is it in respect ? i 

Doth it mean well or ill, or good or bad ? 
His words are cups that brim all o'er with love, 
But is there sign of wedding in this cheer 1 
Perchance the love he proffers comes to me 
In some polluted vessel, that hath been 
Lipped by dishonored maids in wantonness, 
Or drained by thoughtless women in their 

shame ] 
These gaudy trappings, are they meant to be . 
The tire of marriage sent by honest love, 
Or the more tawdry livery of guilt 1 
And all this splendor, all this bounteous state, 
This worship, travail, reverence, and respect — 
'Tis prodigal, 'tis admirable, 'tis rare, 
Most choice, most noble, delicate, and sweet — > 
But doth it cover any meaner thing ? 
A thing so base, so vile, so infamous, 
It doth require to be thus thickly gilt 
To make the metal take a sterling shape 1 
I'll think of this." 

The lady appeared somewhat agitated 
during the delivery of these passages, and 
leaned forward in her chair, drinking in 
every word, evidently with the most intense 
interest. The young player noticing these 
signs, and observing too that her companions 
were still paying no heed to him, proceeded 
with these words : — 

" Alack, I cannot doubt 
These words mean villainy, these garments 

shame, 
This entertainment mischiefs of the worst. 
Methinks the very air I breathe, feels thick 
With craft and malice, treachery and crime ! 
And I am here alone — far from all help — 
Close watched, well guarded, providently kept. 
But hush ! there needs great caution. Not a 

word, 
A sound, a gesture, dare I give to show 
I look suspiciously upon these schemes. 
And yet there might be present even here 
Friends who would strain their hearts for my 

escape, 
Showed I some sign I would assay their aid. 
At least I'll let them see I wear a face 
That needs no mask — for I can truly swear 
As yet it holds no intercourse with shame." 

In an instant the mask was taken off* the 
lady so deeply interested in the play, and, 
as the youthful Shakspeare had for some 
minutes anticipated, he beheld the guileless, 
beautiful countenance of the gentle Mabel, 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



137 



flushed with excitement, and gazed upon 
him with so imploring anxious a look, it was 
plain she had felt every word he had uttered. 
The face was again masked, quite unob- 
served by her companions. The young 
player made a sign of recognition, and con- 
cluded with these lines : — 

" These friends I'll trust, I know they may be 

found 
Out by the gate that ends the garden wall. 
There will I seek them with what speed I may ; 
Having assurance, by their means to 'scape 
The living hell that holds me round about ; 
And back return to innocence' and peace, 
An honored dwelling, and a spotlress name." 

" Come, sweetest, the play is ended," 
whispered her noble gallant. Mabel me- 
chanically rose, and accompanied her to 
his own chamber. Her feelings were in 
such a state of tumult she dared not speak. 
She repeated to herself the lines — 

" 1 know they may be found 
Out by the gate that ends the garden wall," 

as if she would impress them so firmly on 
her memory, there could be no chance of her 
forgetiing them : she also remembered the 
hint that had been given her to be cautious, 
but she had been so little accustomed to dis- 
guise, that here she somewhat feared for 
herself. The revulsion of feeling had been 
so deep, so strong, and so sudden from a sense 
of security and gratitude to a sense of dis- 
gust and abhorrence, that it left her for 
some minutes so greatly bewildered, she 
scarce knew what she was about. Present- 
ly, her lover and herself unmasked. The 
signs of a disturbed nature so visible in her, 
he seemed to expect as a natural conse- 
quence of his craftily-devised play, and he 
nad not the slightest doubt it had produced 
s.,11 the effect he had desired. ' It was time 
now, he thought, to follow up his advantage 
Wore the simple girl could have opportunity 
f'-r reflection, and he made himself ready. 
w f .h the desperate earnestness of a deter- 
r_4'.iieu profligate, to conclude the plot against 
her, as it had been settled by his companions 
in iniquity, during the delivery of the con- 
cluding soliloquy. He came close to her, 
and wound his arm fondly round her waist, 
as she was endeavoring to put her disorder- 
ed thoughts into something resembling pur- 
pose, bringing his face as near to hers as he 
might, and gazing into her eyes with the most 
fond and passionate glances. 

" My sweet life," murmured he, in such 
soft and thrilling tones as he fancied would 
be most effective, " We dally with opportu- 
nity. The happiness I have so long coveted 
and so thoroughly strove to deserve, should 



now, methinks, be my just reward. Love 
beckons us to mutual bliss. Hither with me 
awhile, upon those balmy lips to breathe new 
life, and taste such joy as the enamored soul 
alone can know. Prithee, come this way, 
my heart ! — my queen ! — my treasure !" — 
The gentle Mabel allowed herself to be borne 
unresistingly towards the next chamber — 
seemingly as if stupefied by the fascinating 
gaze of her licentious companion, who hung 
over her exquisite countenance as he drew 
her along, like a gloating serpent — but the 
noble pride of her nature at last made itself 
manifest, for as she came near the door, on a 
sudden she burst from his hold, and retreat- 
ing back a pace or two, fixed on him a look 
of such utter scorn as would have crushed a 
meaner wretch to the earth. 

" Thou shameless villain !" exciaimed 
she, her voice half choked with the fulness 
of her emotions. " Thou pitiful traitor to 
all true love and honesty ! Dost call this 
nobleness ? Dost style this honor ? How 
darest thou attempt to pass off such base- 
ness for the behavior of a princely person ?" 

" Why, how now ?" cried the gallant in 
real astonishment. " What meaneth this 
•unworthy language and these terrible indig- 
nant looks ?" 

" What mean they ?" replied the poor 
foundling, her lustrous eyes flashing with 
scorn, and her whole countenance, as he 
had justly observed, looking terribly indig- 
nant. " They mean that thou hast been 
hugely mistaken in me, as hitherto have I 
been in thee. I am not of such worthless 
stuff as thou hast supposed. I did believe 
thee all thou didst assume, and therefore, 
felt no fear. Thou didst seem honorable. 
I thought thee so." 

" Prithee, let us have no more of this," 
observed the gallant, impatiently. " I mar- 
vel thou shouldst get into so famous a pas- 
sion about nothing, after having enjoyed at 
my expense such bounteous entertainment." 

" I needed it not — I asked it not," answer- 
ed Mabel. " It was forced on me under color 
of honorable intents ; but now I know the 
baseness of its ends, I will not be a partaker 
of it another minute of my life." 

" Not so fast, my pretty tyrantess !" ex- 
claimed her companion. " I cannot part 
with thee so soon, or lessen the splendor 
of which thou hast so liberally partaken.— 
Nor can I believe theu wouldst play so ill 
a part as this thou art about. Come, come, 
sweetest ! this humor becomes thee not at 
all." 

" Away — I am not to be beguiled !" cried 
the fair foundling, eluding his approaches. 

" Nay, 'tis too hard a thing — I cannot think 



128 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



of it," replied the other, standing before the 
•ioor she sought to make her exit out of. " I 
must not see my full great pains and cost 
all come to nought — 'tis out of justice and 
against all right. Marry, wouldst take thy 
pleasure and not pay the price !" 

" I tell thee once again, I took it, thinking 
it was honorably given," said Mabel. " Thou 
didst not mention price, thou talked of honor ! 
Didst think that I would barter away my own 
respect to lie in costly lodging and be clothed 
in delicate attire ? Take back thy pitiful 
bribes," continued she, as she tore from her 
person her jewels, her chains of gold, and 
sparkling rings, and dashed them at his feet. 
" I loathe all I have had of thee— I loathe 
still more the villain who could put them to 
so base a purpose." 

" Ha, dost, indeed !" exclaimed her gal- 
lant, his face now assuming some anger. — 
" O' my life, I will not be so easily thrust 
aside. I have done what ought to satisfy 
any reasonable woman: Indeed, I have had 
more cost and pains taken with thee than 
with any half dozen others I have fancied ; 
but if fair words will not do with thee, foul 
deeds shall. Thou art so completely in myj , 
power that resistance is useless. 'Tis vain 
struggling. Thou must needs submit." 

" Oh, I beseech thee, have some pity !" 
cried the poor foundling, falling on her knees 
at his feet with a look so moving, the sa- 
vagest beast must have been tamed at the 
sight of it. " Surely, thou meanest not 
such evil as thou speakest ; I cannot think 
so ill of thee. Thou art, indeed, that princely 
person I once thought, and knowest and feel- 
est in thy inmost heart, it is no part of no- 
bleness to wrong a poor maid. Let me go 
in honor from thy house, I'll pray for thee 
all my days. I'll hold thee ever after a true 
good friend — a bountiful sweet lord, the very 
noblest gentleman that breathes. My lord — 
my worthy lord — my honorable, good lord — 
as God shall pity thee, so pity my poor state." 

She might have implored a stone. The 
licentious noble, with his looks burning with 
his dishonest passions, drew her in his arms 
towards the adjoining chamber, though she 
clung to his limbs with desperate grasp, and 
continupd with straining eyeballs and hoarse- 
thick voice, to pray his mercy. As he held 
her before him, her hands, clutching him 
wildly as she was borne along, at one time 
fell upon the jewelled pommel of his dagger. 
In a moment the blade was out of its sheath 
— in the next she had twisted herself free of 
his grasp, and stood at some distance from 
him, with one hand striving to stay the throb- 
bing of her heart, and the other, holding out 
the weapon threateningly before her. The 



beauty of her countenance was now abso- 
lutely sublime. There was in it a lofty 
grandeur of expression that can scarce be 
conceived. Her eyes seemed fountains of 
living lightning, and her beautiful lips ap- 
peared to curl with an unutterable sense of 
outraged majesty no language can give the 
remotest idea of. 

" Touch me at thy peril !" exclaimed she, 
as audible as her perturbed state would al- 
low. Her companion seemed so completely 
taken by astonishment, that for a moment he 
stared at her as if uncertain what to be about. 
At last he made a movement as if he would 
approach her, and on the instant, her left 
arm was pointed towards him as stiffly as 
though it had been iron, whilst her right 
clutched the dagger a little behind her. — 
She elevated herself to her full height, and 
threw her head somewhat back, with a look 
and a manner that showed a stern determi- 
nation. 

" I warn thee !" muttered the poor found- 
ling, in a terrible earnestness;, "if thou 
dost but come within arm's length of me to 
follow up thy villainous intentions, as Jesu 
shall save my soul, I'll cleave thy heart in 
twain .'" 

The profligate drew back. He dared not 
battle with the fierce storm he had raised ; 
so, saying he would send to her those who 
would soon have her out of her tragedy hu- 
mor, he turned on his heel to seek the as- 
sistance of his vile associates. Mabel, in 
the same attitude, and with the same look, 
followed him step by step to the door. When 
she heard his departing foot, she looked to 
the fastenings, there were none inside the 
chamber — she dropped her dagger and clasp- 
ed her hands in despair. On a sudden, a 
thought struck her. She ran to the case- 
ment and threw it open. It looked into tlie 
garden, above which it stood some ten feet. 

Without a moment's hesitation she leaped 
out, and finding herself sftfe when she came 
to the ground, flew down the garden like an 
escaped bird. Keeping the wall in view, she 
came, out of breath, to a door at its extremi- 
ty. It was partly open. She dashed through 
it, staggered forward, and fell, with a wild 
hysterical laugh, into the ready arms of Sir 
Valentine. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



129 



CHAPTER XIX. 

Forth goeth all the court, both most and lest, 
To fetch the flourc ^icsh, and branch and blome, 
And namely hauthorn brought both page and 

grome 
And then rejoysen in their great delite : 
Eke ech at other throw the floures bright, 
The primrose, the violete, and the gold, 
With fresh gaiiants party blew and white. 

Chaucer. 
There's not a budding boy or girl, this day 
But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
A deaje of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 

Herrick. 
In this our spacious isle I think there is not one, 
But he hath heard some talk of him and eke of 

Little John, 
Of TucK the merry friar, which many a sermon 

made [trade, 

In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their 
And of his mistress dear, his loved Marian. 

Drayton. 
Shall the hobby horse be forgot then 1 
The hopeful hobby horse, shall he lie foundered] 
Beaumont and Fletcher. 

The feeling with which the youthful poet 
regarded the fair object of his recent adven- 
ture, if it should be called love, was very dif- 
ferent from the passion which goeth under 
that name. In fact, it was more a senti- 
ment than a passion — rather the offspring of 
the intellect than of the affections. It was 
the first rosy hues of light which ushereth 
in the sunshine of the soul, producing the 
fairest glimpses of heaven, before the atmos- 
phere hath heat enough to warm the blood. 
Love it was beyond all doubt, but it was that 
peculiar species which is found only to visit 
the very young and very imaginative. It is 
true it hath a natural source; but it is equal- 
ly undeniable, it dwelleth in the fairy regions 
of the ideal. Where there is early sign of 
great intellect, there will also be found a 
like early sign of deep feeling. The one is 
supported by the other, fostered, encouraged, 
and fed by it. Beauty is indeed the air it 
breathes, but imagination is the soil from 
which it draws its nourishment. The boy 
genius is ever the boy lover, and having 
found some gentle being worthy to be en- 
shrined in the sanctuary of his hopes, he 
proceeds not only to invest her image with 
all loveable attributes, but with such loveable 
behavior as seemeth most proper for the en- 
tertainment of his fantasy. 

He finds a spirit rising over 1 his thoughts, 
which gives them a sort of softened halo, 
that at some favorable opportunity taketh the 
shape of song or sonnet delicately fashioned 



— a sensible adoration — an inspiration be 
ginning and ending in a spiritual heaven of 
its own. Ideas take to themselves wings, 
and fly east and west, and north and south, 
bringing back the riches, rarities, and per- 
fections of the whole globe with which to 
deck this favored deity. He ransacks the 
deepest hollows of the sea — he snatches 
glory from the shining stars — he makes the 
enamelled earth show all her bravest tapestry 
that he may choose the daintiest piece of all 
— and far above, beneath, around, and about, 
where splendor shines, or modest beauty 
hides, he bears away their gifts, as offerings 
worthiest of so pure a shrine. 

Truly, as hath just been said, this is the 
love of the cool morning of life, that differ- 
eth as much in its nature from the blushing 
sunrise of youth, as from the noon-tide 
heats of manhood ; and like unto that early 
season of the day, it soon glides into a 
warmer atmosphere. Love, such as this, 
will always be found to have no purpose, 
save the deification of its object, which it 
loves to worship, rather than worships to 
love. This way it goeth on, like the silk- 
worm in its cocoon, only known by the 
pleasing mantle it weaves around itself; and 
having at last spent all its energies, it comes 
forth, some brief space after its labors, as 
different in character and appearance as any 
two things can be. 

This love, though, let it be remembered, 
made William Shakspeare a poet, some sign 
of which, albeit, it must be thought of "all 
judges, one of no particular greatness, may 
be seen in the simple ballad found by the 
antiquary in the book of songs, which did 
so much delight the good old knight and his 
companions ; but it should also be borne in 
mind, such are ever first efforts. The ma- 
terials of poetry may lie in prodigal heaps 
within the brain, but. the fashioning thera 
into the properest shape comes but after 
many trials. The soliloquy the young poet 
spoke in the place of the one intended to end 
the play, deserveth praise only for the readi- 
ness with which it was written, and aptness 
for the occasion which wrought it into ex- 
istence. It cannot be expected the finish of 
an experienced writer, or the sufficiency of 
a mature genius should be found in such 
things. They should be taken merely for 
what they appear. Nevertheless, if it be 
thought the poet was but in his pot-hooks, 1 
doubt not in good time to show such craft of 
penmanship in him, as shall be all men's ad- 
miration unto the end of time. 

Still was he as diligent a student as ever 
and never could scholar have more caretui 
teachers than William (Shakspeare ^ad j„ 



130 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Master Peregrine, the antiquary, and Sir 
Johan, the chaplain. Ever since the affair 
of the ballad, each of these two watched till 
they could find the young student alone, and 
then they would strive as never they strove 
before he should profit by their instructions, 
in full belief all the whilst, that from his 
teaching alone, the youth had gained all the 
knowledge he possessed. By their means 
he obtained such an acquaintance with what 
was worthiest of note in ancient English 
literature, and Greek and Latin classic lore, 
as it was scarce possible he could have ob- 
tained by any other means. But about this 
time he began more to observe than he had 
hitherto done. He made comparisons — he 
judged — he looked into the meanings of 
things — he commenced studying the appli- 
cation of words, and he analyzed and weigh- 
ed, and sifted what he read, and what he 
saw, till he could point out where lay the 
good and where the bad — how they might 
be distinguished, and what was the differ- 
ence between any two particular matters 
that looked to be alike. This study was not 
confined to books : he pursued it wherever 
he went, and found no lack of subjects in 
the common phenomena of nature. Even a 
drop of rain was some object for speculation 
— the shooting of a star, the fructification of 
a plant, and the falling of a leaf seemed as 
worthy of inquiry. A storm never rolled 
over him but the lightning flashed some new 
meaning into his mind — and he never wit- 
nessed the rising of the sun, but with it 
came some fresh light into his thoughts. As 
he saw the emmets crowding to and fro 
among the grass, he would say, " Wherefore 
is this ?" and whilst he watched the builders 
of the grove making their delicate dwellings 
in the forked branches of the tree, he would 
exclaim, " How is this done ?" High or low 
he sent his curious mind seeking intelli- 
gence. Nothing escaped him, and to his 
eager questionings, all things in nature gave 
him ready answers. 

The gentle Mabel he saw not again all 
this time. He frequented her favorite haunts, 
but she was nowhere visible. Day after day 
found him stealing among the trees where 
he had so oft watched her graceful progress, 
but his anxious gaze was never blessed with 
the slightest sign of her presence. He 
changed the time. He took the early morn- 
ing by the hand and roamed the park before 
the hind had left his bed of rushes; but 
though nature rose wooingly to meet his 
glance, he looked upon her graces only as a 
sort of faint cold picturing of those he de- 
sired to meet in all their living freshness in 
a much fairer original. He made himself 



familiar with the moon, and still did nature 
court him with her lovingest looks, and still 
did she receive such attentions as proved 
she was merely regarded „:? the ambassador 
of the fair sovereign of his thoughts. And 
he lingered out the hours with twilight, till 
she was lost in the embraces of the shadowy 
eve, but with no other result than had ac- 
companied his earlier seeking. Thus passed 
the winter, till the frost was gone, the hearth- 
side tales forgotten, the Christmas sports but 
faintly remembered, and everything around 
was full of green promise and blooming ex- 
pectation. 

The chief companions of his own age 
had long been the four schoolfellows before 
described — of whom Tom Greene was such a 
compound of oddness and drollery as was 
not to be met with elsewhere. None like 
him could play the Hobby-horse in Friar 
Tuck, or the Fool in the May Games, or the 
Lord of Misrule in a Twelfth Night revel, or 
the Vice of a Moral Play. At plough Mon- 
day none was so much in request, and not 
less so was he at Candlemas eve, or Shrove- 
tide, or Hocktide, or at Witsun-ales, at a 
sheep-shearing, or a harvest home. Dick 
Burbage was more for the playing of inge- 
nious tricks, which he carried off with such 
a careless happy impudence, that its pleas- 
antry often took away all offence. Hemings 
had none of this humor, though he could 
enjoy it in others ; yet when he joined his 
companions, he choose to play a courtly part, 
if such could be had. As for Condell he 
was ready enough to do whatever the others 
did. He would play with them at shuffle 
board, or shove-groat, in a mumming, or an 
interlude, as eagerly as he would join them 
in running at the quintain, or assist them in 
the threshing of a shrove-tide hen. In fact 
he seemed to care not what it was, so he 
was one of the party, but if he might be 
allowed a preference he would gladly stand 
out for the playing of Gammer Gurton's 
Needle. 

During the time his thoughts were so busy 
feeding of his fantasy for the fair maid of 
Charlcote, William Shakspeare had joined 
his companions but seldom. In very truth 
he somewhat shrunk from their boisterous 
mirth, for he liked best to be alone ; but 
seeing nought of Mabel, his mind for want 
of that necessary nourishment, relaxed 
something in the earnestness of its worship 
At such an age and with such a nature this 
ideal idolatry requireth at least the frequent 
presence of the object, before it can take 
upon itself that warmer devotion which alonfl 
is lasting and natural ; and without sight oi 
the idol, the mere imaginative existence ol 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



131 



this boyish love soon becomes manifest. 
Gradually the thoughts relax in their search- 
ing after admirable things with which to 
tire their gentle deity. They go not so far 
— they stay not so long — they bring home 
less and less every day ; and thus it goeth 
on, the circuit of their visits lessening by 
degrees, and their labor becoming corres- 
pondingly unprofitable, till at last they cease 
altogether going on any such errands. Now 
it may be considered the idolatry is at an 
end, though some faint vestige of it may 
linger about the mind ; but it is a bygone 
superstition belonging to an ideal world, that 
will only be remembered by some beautiful 
presence in nature with which it was wont 
to be accompanied, as some will still believe 
they see the dryad in the tree and the nymph 
in the fountain. This was the time for en- 
tertaining that deeper worship to which al- 
lusion has just been made, and the young 
poet was not long without meeting with a 
suitable deity willing to excite and to re- 
ceive it. 

Hemings' friends lived at Shottery, a vil- 
lage at a little distance from Stratford, to 
which William Shakspeare and others of 
his companions occasionally resorted, and 
one pleasant afternoon as the young poet 
was returning from a visit he had been pay- 
ing to his schoolfellow, he was aroused from 
his customary meditations when alone, by a 
■vveet voice singing these words : — 

THE SPINSTER'S SONG. 

" Damon came a praising me, 

Vowing that he loved me too — 
None like I so fair could be, 
None like him could be so true. 
I meant to chide, but spoke no sound — 
And still my wheel went round and round. 

" Damon, somewhat bolder grown, 
In his hand mine fondly placed, 
Pressed it gently in his own, 

Then his arm twined round my waist. 
Somehow I smiled instead of frowned, 
And still my wheel went round and round. 

" Damon brought his face nigh mine, 

Though he knows I kisses hate ; 
I would baulk his base design — 
But, the wretch, he did it straight ! 
And then again ! — and still I found 
That still my wheel went round and round." 

During the singing of these verses, the 
young poet was engaged in observing the 
singer. At a little distance from the road, 
running between Shottery and Stratford, was 
a neat cottage, trailed all over with a goodly 
pear tree, then in full blossom, with a grass 



plat before it. It was not one of the com 
mon sort of cottages, for it possessed an ap- 
pearance of comfort and respectability which 
showed it belonged to some person at least 
of the rank of a yeoman. There was in 
one place a famous brood of poultry, and in 
another a good fat sow, with a litter of pigs, 
wandering about at their will. A fair gar- 
den and orchard stood beyond the house, 
and in a neat paddock at the side were a cow 
and a favorite pony. At the open door, 
through which might be seen notable signs 
of the soI& comfort that prevailed within, 
some two or three very young children were 
taking of their supper of porridge in wooden 
bowls, occasionally throwing a spoonful to 
the fowls, to the monstrous gratification of 
both parties ; whilst farther off a boy, of some 
eight or ten years was amusing himself with 
a tame rabbit. The singer, however, was 
none of these. At a spinning wheel, placed 
close to the house at a few yards from the 
door, there sat a blooming girl, attired with 
that sort of daintiness with which such fair 
creatures do love to set off their comeliness. 
She was the singer. There was a laughing 
careless air with her as she sung the words, 
that, in the eyes of the spectator, much 
heightened the provocation of her pouting 
lips, and large, soft, languishing eyes, her 
rich dark complexion, and the budding full- 
ness of her figure. 

William Shakspeare had crept unseen be- 
hind a large walnut tree that stood in front 
of the cottage, where he stood like one spell- 
bound, drinking in at his eyes such intoxi- 
cating draughts of beauty, that they put him 
into a steep forgetfulness of all other mat- 
ters in a presently; and here doubtless he 
would have stood, I know not how long, had 
not the singer made some sign she was aware 
of his vicinity — perchance she knew it all 
the time — however, spying of a handsome 
youth gazing on her in a manner she could 
not misinterpret, she rose from her seat in a 
seeming great surprise, and as she did so 
the young poet, in voluntary homage to the 
power he had so well inclined to honor, un- 
covered his head. There they stood, notic- 
ing of 'nothing but each other, and neither 
saying a word. All at once the little chil- 
dren dropped their bowls, and with infantile 
exclamations of delight ran as fast as they 
could to a tall, honest-looking, manly sort of 
a man, who with a keg slung across his 
shoulders, and in a working dress, seemed as 
if he had just come from his labor in the 
fields. The young poet turned and beheld 
this person close behind him, with the chil- 
dren clinging to his legs with every appear* 
ance of exquisite sweet pleasure. 



iaa 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



"Hallo, young sir! what dost want?" 
inquired he, eyeing the youthful Shaks- 
peare with some curiousness. 

" Truly, I want nothing," replied the latter, 
a little taken by surprise, as it were ; " I 
was but attracted here by some sweet sing- 
ing, and did not imagine I was doing of any 
wrong by listening." 

" Humph !" exclaimed the elder, perfectly 
conscious that this was the truth; for he, 
having been behind the youth from the first, 
had witnessed the whole affair. " What's 
thy name ?" added he. 

" William Shakspeare," was the answer. 

" Thought so, give's thee hand," said the 
other frankly, and in the next moment the 
young poet found his palm grasped by his 
new acquaintance with a friendliness that 
quite astonished him. " Thy father and I 
are old friends from boys. Ask of him if he 
know not John Hathaway. Many a time 
hath he been in my house, and as 9ft have I 
been in his ; and famous sport have we had 
together, I'll warrant. But some how I have 
seen nought of him of late. As for thyself, 
I have heard very creditable report of thee, 
and therefore say, with all heartiness, I am 
glad to see thee here — so thou must needs 
come in and take a bit of supper with us." 

William Shakspeare was in no mood for 
refusing of such a request ; he accepted the 
invitation as freely as it was given, and both 
entered the cottage together. There the 
rack filled with bacon — the logs blazing 
comfortably in the deep chimney, with the 
gun hanging above, and the store of platters, 
bowls, trenchers, and other household things 
that surrounded him on every side, were 
most convincing proof to the visitor that the 
owner lived in no sort of want. 

" Here, Anne, take these things, and draw 
us a jug of ale," cried John Hathaway, put- 
ting down on the table what he had carried 
on his shoulder, as the singer hastened to- 
wards him, and would have a kiss with the 
rest — a proceeding by the way, which his 
guest regarded with something of envy. 
" Then put these young ones to their beds, 
and afterwards cut us a delicate rasher, with 
such other things as thou hast for eating ; 
for here is the son of an honest friend of 
mine who meaneth to sup with us." 

" You shall have a most dainty supper 
anon, father," replied his daughter, busying 
herself without delay to do as she was re- 
quired. In the meanwhile the youthful 
Shakspeare was making friends with the 
children, and by the kind affectionateness of 
his manner quickly won their little hearts. 

" Come, draw up *Jiy chair, friend Will, 
tod take a drink," said his host, seating 



himself in the chimney corner, where theft 
were seats on each side. William Shaks- 
peare did as he was bid, nothing loath, and 
presently the two fell into conversing about 
ordinary matters, and from these to other 
topics of more interest. The young visitor 
appeared desirous of making a favorable 
impression upon his host, for he endeavored 
to make all his talk turn upon what the 
other was most familiar with, and spoke so 
learnedly upon the state of the crops^tlw 
best system of tillage, the prospects of the 
lambing season, and the breed of live stock, 
that he not only won the honest yeoman's 
heart, but he astonished him monstrously 
into the bargain. All the whilst he failed 
not to give an occasional admiring glance at 
the movements of his new friend's buxom 
daughter, who for her part seemed to give 
back his looks with some interest. 

"How dost like our Anne's singing?" 
inquired John Hathaway, when his daughter 
had left the chamber to put the children to 
their beds. 

% " Very exceedingly I do assure you," 
replied the youth, with a notable siitcerity. 

" Humph !" exclaimed the father, as 
though he were a thinking of something he 
cared not to give speech to. "Indeed she 
hath a sweet throat." Nothing more was 
said on that head at that moment ; and they 
again talked of country matters, till his host 
cound not any longer contain his great won- 
dering at his guest's marvellous insight into 
such things, and inquired how he acquired 
it ; whereupon the other truly answered he 
got it questioning of those whose business 
it was. In good time the yeoman's bloom- 
ing daughter returned, and busied herself 
with preparations for supper, taking care 
whenever she could to have her share in 
the discourse which she did with a pretty 
sprightliness exceedingly agreeable to her 
young admirer. Seeing her attempting to 
move the great table nearer to the fire, he 
must needs jump up, and with a graceful 
officiousness, seek to do it himself, the 
which she appeared to object to in some 
manner, and there was a little arguing ot 
the matter betwixt them — the father looking 
on with a glimmering smile, as if he could 
see in it something exceeding pleasant. 
The end was, that the two young people 
carried the table together, manifestly to 
their extreme satisfaction. 

This John Hathaway was one of the most 
industrious yeomen in the country, and had 
been sometime a widower. He was of a 
famous pleasant temper, but was far from 
making a boisterous show of it. He delight- 
ed greatly to assist in the honest pleasures of 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



113 



any other, yet few could guess from his 
manner on such occasions, that he took the 
interest in it he did. Indeed he was some- 
what of a sly humor, and liked none to know 
when he was most pleased. His honest, 
well-embrowned countenance, set off with 
hair and beard, getting to be grey, never 
ventured on such occasions beyond a lurking 
smile, and ewen then he seemed to take care 
the parties who had excited it, should not 
see. Doubtless he was in a rare humor 
with his new acquaintance, but though he 
lacked nothing in hospitality, he appeared to 
hear him and regard him with so staid an 
ispect, it was difficult for the latter to know 
whether he was satisfied with him or other- 
wise. Still the youth continued seeking to 
entertain his host with his converse, having 
sufficient reward in the approving glances of 
the other's sprightly daughter, who was well 
enough acquainted with such things to take 
a singular pleasure in observing the skill 
with which her young admirer spoke of them. 
In due time the rashers were done, and 
with a store of other wholesome victual, 
were put on a fair white cloth, that covered 
the table, and William Shakspeare was 
pressed with blunt courtesy by the father, 
and a more winning persuasiveness by the 
daughter, to partake of the fare set before 
him. This he essayed to do with a notable 
good will. After this the blooming Anne 
brewed a goodly posset, and whilst they 
were enjoying it, her father called on her to 
sing him a song, the which she seemed a 
little, — a very little to hesitate upon, with a 
sort of pretty coyness time out of* mind cus- 
tomary under similar circumstances, but 
after the handsome youth had pressed her 
with an excellent show of rhetoric, she sung 
a dainty ditty, then popular, concerning of 
" The little pretty Nightingale," and at least 
one of the listeners thought it most exqui- 
site sweet singing. Then John Hathaway 
would needs have a song of his guest, to 
the which his daughter added her entreaties 
so prettily, the youthful Shakspeare found it 
impossible to resist, whereupon he com- 
menced the singing of a favorite love-song 
of the time, beginning " If I had wytt for to 
endyte." The words were of a pleasant 
conceit which gained considerably in ad- 
mirableness by the manner of his singing, 
and the tune, by means of his rich, clear 
voice, came upon the air a very river of 
melody. Whether the yeomen liked the 
song could only be told by the pleasure 
lurking in the corners of his mouth, and 
shining quaintly in his half-closed eye-lids, 
which might be interpreted he saw more in 
it than the singer imagined — however, that 



his daughter relished it there could be no 
questioning, for her smiles were full as evi- 
dent as her praises. 

" Now friend Will, thee must be a going," 
exclaimed John Hathaway at last, in his 
usual plain countryman sort of manner. 
" 'Tis my custom to go to bed with the lamb, 
and rise with the lark — an excellent good 
custom I'll warrant— so I'll e'en bid thee a 
fair good night — nevertheless I will add to it 
I shall be happy to see thee at all times — > 
and if I be not at home, perchance Anne will 
be as happy to see thee as myself." He 
said this with a look of humor that shone 
through all the staidness of his aspect, and 
shaking his visitor heartily by the hand, he 
opened the door for his exit. His daughter 
denied not a word of what her father had 
said. Indeed, her glances, as she bade the 
youth good night, as plainly said — " Come 
again," as ever was expressed by a pair of 
bright eyes since the world began. 

William Shakspeare returned home with 
his feelings in a sort of delicious pleasure, 
perfectly new to him. Be sure he would 
have hastened to the cottage next day, only 
he was forced to be at Sir Marmaduke's 
according to promise. The old knight took 
huge delight in having all festivals and holi- 
days kept with due ceremony at his mansion. 
He would not have omitted the slightest 
things savored of the old times. Knowing 
this, the antiquary called his young scholar 
to his counsels, for the express purpose of 
getting up the festival of the May in such a 
manner as should outdo all former things of 
the like sort, and the youth had been com- 
missioned to press into his service whoever 
he thought could afford him proper assist- 
ance. These he had to make familiar with 
their duties. But if he did not visit the fair 
singer that day, be sure he did the day fol- 
lowing, invested with extraordinary powers 
by his friend Master Peregrine, with which 
he acquainted his new acquaintance John 
Hathaway, and to his exceeding satisfac- 
tion found they were favorably entertained 
of him : the purport of which will be seen anon. 

Scarce had the last day of April closed, 
when, by the sweet moonlight, William 
Shakspeare, with a famous company of both 
sexes — friends, tenants, servants, and others, 
started to a neighboring wood, where they 
searched about for all manner of flowers then 
in season, which they gathered into nose- 
gays and garlands ; and broke down blos- 
soming boughs of trees, chiefly of birch, 
green sycamore, and hawthorn, to carry home 
with them to deck the doors and porches 
withal, and make a goodly Maypole. Fa- 
mous sport had they all the while, laughing 



134 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Mid shouting, frolicking in the grass, and 
wandering about dispersedly, making the 
whole country ring with their mirth. About 
sunrise they again joined company — men, 
women, and children — each laden with the 
spoil of the Spring. A tall elm had been 
cut down, and a straight and taper pole fitted 
to the end of it, and painted in spiral lines of 
yellow and black. It was then prodigally 
adorned with garlands of fresh flowers and 
new ribbon of the gayest colors. Some 
forty yoke of oxen belonging to Sir Marma- 
duke, with each a sweet posey at the tip of 
his horns had then to draw it home, accom- 
panied on its slow march with the whole of 
the company, bearing their green boughs, 
savory herbs, and odorous blossoms, — sing- 
ing, leaping, and dancing, as if nothing could 
exceed their pleasure. 

The Maypole having been drawn to an 
open place in the park, convenient to the 
house, was raised up .on high with a great 
shouting and glee ; and it was a right dainty 
sight to note the streamers dancing merrily 
in the breeze, and the various colors of the 
delicate blossoms. Having done this, the 
principals of the festival had other prepara- 
tions to make, which they set about with a 
proper earnestness. All the armor in the 
old hall was presently hid under boughs and 
flowers, and the like decorations were pro- 
digally bestowed in every direction about the 
house. On the floor the long tables were 
spread with cakes and other choice cates 
for whoever chose to come. The whole 
neighborhood looked like a fairy bower, and 
crowds of persons in strange garments camf 
thronging in and out, looking as joyful as 
ever they had been in their days. 

After this, wholesome viands:, and ale of 
the best might be had in different bowers 
made of branches of trees in the park ; and 
at dinner there was a most prodigal banquet 
of everything for to eat and to drink that 
could be procured. Here was a gammon of 
bacon-pie, there a lamb dressed whole — in 
one place a venison pasty, in another a great 
iish, a shield of brawn with mustard, a chine 
of beef roasted, baked chewets, a kid with a 
pudding in the belly, and all manner of 
poultry, made but a small stock of the won- 
derful load of victual under which the table 
groaned. Even the lower messes had most 
handsome entertainment, and every place 
bore sign of most sumptuous feasting. The 
great variety of dresses then worn, and the 
happy joyous faces there visible, made the 
whole scene as pleasant a one as could be 
imagined ; but the goodliest feature of it all 
was old Sir Marmaduke in hi.° customary 
place at the top of the table, regarding every 



one with the same graciousness, and only 
looking around him to see that all present 
were as happy as he thought they ought to 
be. Of the jests that flew about, or of the 
tricks that were played, I can make scarce 
any mention. The strangeness, however, of 
some groups, methinks should not escape 
notice ; — for in one place St. George and 
the dragon, forgetful of their deadly enmity, 
were shaking hands introductory to drinking 
each other's health ; in another, Robin Hood 
and little John, as regardless of their mutual 
love, were seeking which could lay fastest 
hold of a tankard each had got a hand upon ; 
here the fool was cunningly emptying of 
Friar Tuck's full trencher into his own 
empty one, whilst the other was turning a 
moment on one side in amorous gossip with 
his acquaintance, maid Marian ; and then 
the hobby-horse was knocking together 
the heads of Will Stukely and Much, the 
miller's son, who were leaning over each 
other, laughingly regarding tne proceedings 
of their friend in motley. 

After this, by the great exertions of young 
Shakspeare, this goodly company returned 
to the park in the following order : — first, 
went one playing on the bagpipes, and 
another on the tabor, making as much noise 
as they could ; then followed the Morris- 
dancers, with their faces blackened, their 
coats of white spangled fustian, with scarfs, 
ribbons, and laces flying from every part, 
holding rich handkerchiefs in their hands, 
and wearing purses at their girdles, garters 
to their knees, with some thirty or forty lit- 
tle bells attached to them, and feathers at 
their hats, with other bells at their wrist3 
and elbows. They danced as they went, 
and flaunted their handkerchiefs very brave- 
ly. Then came six comely damsels, dressed 
in blue kirtles, and wearing garlands of 
primroses. After them, as many foresters 
in tunics, hoods, and hose, all of grass green, 
and each of them with a bugle at his side, 
a sheaf of arrows at his girdle, and a bent 
bow in his hand. 

After them walked William Shakspeare, 
equipped as Robin Hood, in a bright grass 
green tunic, fringed with gold ; his hood 
and hose part-colored blue and white ; his 
handsome head was crowned with a garland 
of rose-buds ; he bore a bow in his hand, a 
sheaf of arrows in his girdle, and a bugle- 
horn suspended from a baldrick of light blue 
tarantine, embroidered with silver, worn from 
his shoulder. A handsome sword and dag- 
ger formed also part of his equipments. On 
one side of him walked Hemings, as Little 
John ; on the other Condell, as Will Stuke- 
ly ; and divers others of the merry outlaw's 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



133 



companions followed, two by two, all in their 
suits of green, and each with a sheaf of ar- 
rows at his girdle, and a bent bow in his 
hand. Then came two fair damsels, in or- 
ange colored kirtles, with white court-pies 
or vests, preceding Anne Hathaway, as Maid 
Marian, attired in a watchet-colored tunic 
reaching to the ground, with a white linen 
rochet, with loose sleeves fringed with silver, 
and neatly plaited, worn over it, her girdle 
of silver baudeken fastened with a double 
row on the left side ; her long silken hair, 
divided in many ringlets, flowed down upon 
her fair shoulders ; the top of her head or- 
namented with a net-work caul of gold with 
a garland of silver, decked with fresh blue 
violets above : truly as tempting a Maid 
Marian as ever seduced outlaw to the merry 
green wood. After her came a company of 
her maidens : some in sky-colored rochets 
girt with crimson girdles, with garlands of 
blue and white violets ; and others with 
green court-pies, with garlands of violets 
and cowslips. 

Then came Sir Marmaduke's fat butler, 
as Friar Tuck, carrying a huge quarter staff 
on his shoulder ; and with him Oliver Dumps, 
the constable, as Much, the miller's son, 
bearing a long pole with an inflated bladder 
attached to one end of it. Who should 
come next but Tom Green, as the hobby- 
horse, frisking up and down, gallopping, 
curvetting, ambling and trotting after so 
moving a style, it naturally forced a horse- 
laugh from a great portion of the spectators. 
It should be remembered, that this ancient 
feature in a May-day festival, was a horse 
of pasteboard, having false legs for the rider 
outside, whilst the real legs stood on the 
ground, concealed from the spectators by the 
saddle-cloth which enveloped the hobby-horse 
all around ; and great art was required to 
make a proper exhibition of horsemanship, 
by the person appearing to be its rider. 
Then came our old acquaintance Humphrey, 
in the form of a dragon, — hissing, yelling 
and shaking his wings in a most horrid 
manner; and after him Dick Burbage, as 
St. George, in full armor, ever and anon, 
giving his enemy a poke behind, with his 
wooden spear, that made him roar again. 
Following these were a motley assemblage 
of villagers and guests, and Sir Marmaduke, 
with his chaplain, in the midst. 

When they came to that open part of the 
park before described, the sports recom- 
menced with the spirit they had not known 
all the day before. The foresters shot at 
the target, and Robin and his Maid Marian 
were of course the chiefest of all for skill. 
Some danced round the Maypole ; but the 
9 



dragon, who had drank more of the knight's 
good ale than became any dragon of gentil- 
ity, must needs be after kissing divers of the 
maidens — married man though he was, and 
this got him some whacks from Much, the 
miller's son, besides a decent cudgelling 
from Will Stukely and Little John. Master 
Robin, Sir Marmaduke's fat butler, made a 
most jolly Friar Tuck ; for with an irresist- 
able droll humor in his roguish eyes, he 
would walk among the people propping of 
his heavy quarter-staff upon their toes, 
whereupon if" any cried out, he would very 
gravely preach them a famous sermon on 
patience under pain and affliction ; and bid- 
ding them count their beads and say their 
paternosters, he would go his way. 

Many persons had come to see these 
sports from the neighboring villages, and 
these formed a crowd nearly all round the 
place. Sir Marmaduke and his guests had 
placed themselves on a piece of rising 
ground in front of the house, some lying 
of their lengths on the grass, some leaning 
against trees, some sitting, and some stand- 
ing. Sir Johan kept by the side of his pa- 
tron with a pleasant gravity, making a most 
admirable choice thanksgiving for the boun- 
ties all had received that day. Sir Reginald, 
who had only returned to the mansion the 
same morning, was with his friend Sir Val- 
entine, gallantly attending upon a bevy of 
fair ladies who had come to witness the 
sports ; and Master Peregrine was bustling 
about in a sort of fidgetty delight, explaining 
to every listener he could lay hold of, the 
history and antiquity of every part of the 
festival. It so happened that whilst St. 
George was stalking round the place, armed 
with spear and buckler, striving to look as 
heroic as ever could have done that renown- 
ed champion, he spied the dragon playing at 
bo-peep among the Morris-dancers, and 
almost at the same instant the dragon spied 
him. At which the latter commenced ad- 
vancing into the middle of the open space 
betwixt the Maypole and the guests, shaking 
of his wings, yelling, and hissing enough to 
frighten all the champions in Christendom. 

St. George, however, was after him with 
long strides, till they met in a very choice 
place for fighting, when he addressed him in 
these words : — 
" Hullo, thou pitiful villain, art thou for turning 

tail! 
Stay here, I prithee, a moment, and I will 
make thee wail !" 

"Whereupon the dragon answered in a 
monstrous fustian voice — 

" Out on thee, Jack Pudding ! or if thou need*, 
must stay, 



136 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Fll swallow thee — bones and all — and leave the 
rest for another day." 

Then exclaimed the champion very val- 
iantly, as became him — 
" Peace, knave ! have done with thy humming 
and hawing." 

And thereupon the monster replied, in an 
equally tearing humor — 
" (Jugs zounds, if thou coniest anigh me I'll 
give thee a famous clawing !" 

After a little more such brave language, 
in which each got famously abused by the 
other, they seemed intent upon a desperate 
combat of life and death. The dragon made 
more noise than ever he had ; and came up- 
on his adversary with his claws extended, 
and his mouth wide open, as though he 
meant to make of him but a mere mouthful : 
but St. George seemed quite up to his tricks, 
for he presently clenched his spear and 
braced his buckler, and gave the monster so 
sore a poke, he yelled till the place echoed 
with him. Then cried he out very lustily — 
" Wounds ! thou caitiff vile ! thou hast broken a 

joint of my tail — 
•I die ! I'm dead ! Oh for a drop of small ale !" 

At this moment up comes Much, the mil- 
ler's son with his pole and bladder, exclaim- 
ing to the deceased monster : — 
" What ho, Sir Dragon ! hast indeed ceased thy 

snubbing I 
Mayhap thou wouldst be the better for a decent 

drubbing." 
Upon which he began to lay upon the mon- 
ster with his bladder with such force the 
other started to life roaring like a town bull, 
crying out, as he rubbed himself, very piti- 
fully- 

" Go, hang for a knave, and thy thumping cease, 
Canst not let a poor dragon die in peace 1" 

But as the miller's son evidently had no 
bowels Tor the monster, the dragon would 
not stay any longer to be drubbed, and rose 
o take himself off with what speed he 
might ; but just at this moment up came the 
hobby-horse, capering away in the most del- 
icate fashion, and he thus addressed the 
other : — 

" List, lordlings list ! I am here in my best graces 
With my ambles, my trots, and my Canterbury 

paces. 
Is not my tail fresh frizzled, and my mane new 

shorn, 
And my bells and my plumes are they not 

bravely worn 1 
Stand up Sir Dragon, and swear me sans remorse 
There never was seen so rare a hobby horse." 

Upon saying which he neighed like a young 
Sllv, and cantered and careered round the 



monster, so that he could not move in any 
way. Others of the characters came up, 
and they all had some droll thing or another 
to say ; and it ended with the whole party 
joining hands for a dance round a Maypole, 
which seeing, Master Peregrine, who had 
for the last hour fidgetted about as if he 
knew not what to do with himself, suddenly 
started from his place at the top of his 
speed, and in the next minute had got the 
dragon by one hand and the hobby-horse by 
the other, dancing round the Maypole, to the 
infinite delight of the spectators, with as 
prodigal signs of glee as though he were the 
merriest of the lot. 

The youthful Shakspeare played the part 
of king of the festival, and in princely sort 
he did it too : for it was remarked of many, 
so choice a Robin Hood and Maid Marian 
they had never seen. Doubtless he had 
famous opportunities for increasing his ac- 
quaintance with the blooming daughter of 
John Hathaway, and there is every reason 
for supposing he turned them to good ac- 
count. In due time the sports ended, and 
he walked home with her and her father — 
who with his family had purposely enjoyed 
a holiday, induced to it by the representa- 
tions of his new acquaintance — if not per- 
fectly in love, as nigh to it as was possible 
for him to be. 

It was late in the evening of the same day 
when Sir Reginald, for the first time, found 
himself alone with his friend Sir Valentine, 
he having managed to draw the latter to walk 
with him in the park, convenient to the 
house. The sounds of revelry had ceased, 
and both actors and spectators had retired to 
their homes. The two young knights 
strolled together silently in the shadow of 
the trees, Sir Valentine thinking it would 
be a favorable opportunity for him to ac- 
quaint his friend with what had taken place 
betwixt him and the sovereign of his heart' 
affections, and ask his advice and assistance 
to carry on his suit to her to an honorable 
conclusion. 

"Dost remember that exquisite sweet 
creature we rescued from villains at Kenil- 
worth?" inquired Sir Reginald. 

"Indeed do I, marvellously well," replied 
Sir Valentine, somewhat wondering his 
friend should begin to speak of the very sub- 
ject of his own thoughts. 

" I tell thee, Sir Valentine," continued the 
other, with exceeding earnestness, " all the 
whilst I was at court, even amongst the 
choicest damsels of the chiefest families of 
the kingdom, I could think of none other but 
her ; for each did but remind me of her in- 
finite superiority in aL Moveable delectable 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



187 



gnjcA* His young companion walked on, 
listening with a pale cheek and a throbbing 
heart. ' ; The first thing I did on approach- 
this neighborhood," continued the other, 
* was to hie me to Charlcote, in the hope of 
delighting mine eyes with a glimpse of her 
fair beauty once again. I was so fortunate 
as to meet with her. She appeared lovelier 
than ever, and a sort of sadness was mani- 
fest in her dainty fair countenance, that 
made its attractiveness infinitely more touch- 
ing. She seemed glad to see me. I assure 
thee I lingered in her delightsome society, 
utterly incapable of tearing myself away. 
Never met I a maiden of such moving 
graces, or of such delicate behavior. In 
brief, I love her — as absolutely as ever fond 
heart can." Sir "Valentine felt as though he 
could scarce breathe. 

" I have sought thee here to tell thee of 
this," added Sir Reginald, ** knowing thou 
art the truest friend that ever knight had. 
And I would make such trial of thy friend- 
ship as I would of none other living. My 
entire happiness is in the keeping of this 
most divine creature ; and I would give 
worlds could I sigh at her feet, or bask in 
her smiles as often as I desire. But I have 
plighted my word to my honorable good 
friend, that notable brave gentleman, Sir 
Philip Sydney, to accompany him in a cer- 
tain expedition he is preparing for, and 
therefore it must needs be f can have but 
small occasion for carrying on my suit. Be- 
ing in this strait, and knowing of thy ex- 
treme trust-worthiness, and exceeding love 
for me, I would obtain at thy hands such 
true service, as for thee to seek out my 
soul's idol on all warrantable occasions, and 
with such affectionate rhetorfc as thou canst 
master for so loving a purpose, urge her on 
my behalf. Give her no cause to mark my 
absence. Press her with passionate impor- 
tunities. Let thy talk be ever of my devo- 
tion to her, and thy manner of such a sort 
as should convince her of its earnestness." 

Sir Valentine essayed to speak, but the 
words died unuttered in his throat. 

" Can I have such important service ren- 
dered me ?" inquired Sir Reginald. " But 
I am assured I cannot appeal to so true a 
friend unprofitably. I know enough of that 
honorable worthy nature to convince me no- 
thing will be left undone that these circum- 
stances require." 

Sir Valentine managed at last to utter his 
xaisent to do what was required of him ; and 
flien fearful he should betray his own feel- 
ings if he stopped where he was, he made 
an excuse for hurrying away, wrung his 
friend's hand more affectionately than ever 



he had done, though at that moment his ow» 
heart was more forcibly wrung by the fierce 
trial he was undergoing, and left him to 
school his nature into the doing of what he 
had undertaken. 



CHAPTER XX. 

Come, my Celia, let us prove, 
Whilst we can the joys of love ! 
Time will not be ours forever : 
He at length our good will sever. 
Spend not then his gifts in vain 
Suns that set may rise again + 
But if once we lose this light, 
'Tis with us perpetual night. 

Ben Jonsow. 
Oh with that 
I wish to breathe my last ; upon thy lips 
Those equal twins of comeliness, I seal 
The testament of honorable vows. 
Whoever be that man that shall unkiss 
The sacred print next, may he prove more thrifty 
In this world's just applause, not more desertful. 

Ford. 

The behavior of the youthful Shakspeare 
to the yeoman's blooming daughter, might, 
perchance, be to the marvel of some who 
have it in their remembrance the infinite 
delicacy and retiringness of his conduct to- 
wards the beautiful foundling at Charlcote, 
but these things are to be considered — to 
wit, that he had in a manner outlived that 
age of boyish shyness which so manifestly 
appeared in him, and with it that mere ideal 
adoration with which it was accompanied. 
His love for Mabel was but a sentiment, 
born in the mind and dying there, yet her- 
alding the coming of another love, partaking 
more of passion than of sentiment, engross- 
ing both the heart and the mind in all their 
entireness, and showing such a vigorous ex- 
istence as plainly proved how firm a hold it 
had on the powerfullest energies of fife. 
Anne Hathaway was altogether different 
from the foundling. Her rich rosy com- 
plexion — her careless free glance, and her 
eloquent soft smiles expressed quite another 
character. Her manners were equally op- 
posite — being of that heedless enticing sort, 
which draweth all eyes admiringly, and soon 
suns them into a social delightsome warmth. 
But this was nothing more than the outward 
display of a natural fond temperament, 
where the heart was overflowing with gen- 
erous sweet feelings, and was anxious for 
an object on whom to display its exceeding 
bountifulness. Such a one, clothed wita 
such resistless fascinations, was sure to 



138 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



produce an extraordinary impression on the 
ardent nature of the young poet. Her ap- 
proving glance — her seductive smile — or 
her slightest touch, filled him with a sense 
of joyousness no language could express. 

These were unequivocal signs of love in 
its riper stage. At this period of youth the 
imprisoned affections burst from their womb, 
and start into life with impulses that will 
allow of no controlling. Everything wear- 
eth a new aspect. A rosier light shines 
through the atmosphere. A warmer breath 
is felt upon the breeze. A multitude of new 
feelings seem struggling in the breast to 
have free development, and in fact the whole 
humanity appeareth to take on itself a char- 
acter perfectly distinct from that which it 
had previously worn. Nature now whis- 
pereth in the ear a secret unthought of 
hitherto ; and all the man riseth at the intel- 
ligence, filled with a mysterious influence — 
a sense of happiness and power — and a 
knowledge of that sweet philosophy whose 
right use maketh a very Eden of delight to 
the Adams and Eves of every passing gen- 
eration. 

Anne Hathaway received the advances 
of her youthful lover so welcomingly, that 
he lacked nothing of inducement to proceed. 
Indeed, hers was not a disposition to with- 
stand the passionate ardor of so prepossess- 
ing a wooer, and from the first hour Of their 
meeting, she had regarded him with most 
favorable sentiments. It was sometime af- 
ter the May-day festival that the blooming 
Anne, as was customary with her, sat ply- 
ing of her wheel in her old place, whilst her 
youthful lover, as was usual with him, had 
drawn a seat close to hers, having his arm 
resting on the back of her chair. Some ex- 
quisite speeches and passionate admiring 
looks from him, were followed by a suffi- 
ciency of sprightly answers and bright pro- 
voking glances from her. Thus had their 
mutual passion advanced and no further, 
but it was soon to show more endearing signs. 

" Canst affect verses, Anne ?" inquired 
the young poet. 

" Ay, a sweet love song, of all things," 
replied the village beauty, in her ordinary 
free-hearted way. 

" Wouldst approve of them any the more 
if thou wert their subject ?" asked he. 

"Should I not?" answered she, archly. 
" Marry, 1 must needs think them the finest 
sweetest verses ever writ." 

" I have essayed the writing of some," 
continued her youthful lover in a more ten- 
der manner. " But I am rather out of heart 
I have not produced a poem more worthy of 
thy exceeding merit." 



" Hast, indeed, written something of me 1" 
exclaimed the yeoman's buxom daughter, 
glancing at him a look of infinite curiosity 
and pleasure. " O' my word, now, I should 
be right glad to see it." 

" If thou wilt promise to pardon my too 
great boldness, I will here read these, my 
poor verses," said the young poet. His 
companion was too eager to know what 
could he have written about her, to care 
much what she promised: so, whilst she 
sent her wheel round very diligently, her 
youthful lover drew a paper from beneath 
his doublet, and soon, with an exquisite im- 
passioned manner, and soft mellow voice- 
somewhat tremulous here and there — he 
commenced reading what is here set down. 

LOVE'S ARGOSIE. 

" Awhile ago I passed an idle life 

Like as a leaf that's borne upon the breeze ; 

Thoughtless of love as lambkin of the knife, 
Or the young bird of hawk, among the trees. 

I knew not, thought not, cared not for the mor- 
row, 

And took unblessed my daily joy or sorrow. 

I saw the bounteous hand of Nature fling 
Her princely largess over each green place j 

I saw the blushes of the tender Spring 

Hiding within the summer's warm embrace 

I saw the burthened Autumn fast expiring, 

And Winter, in the year's grave, make a cheer- 
ful firing. 

" Yet all the time was I as blind as mole 

Who digs his habitation in the dark, 
Though light there was, it fell not on my soul, 
A fire burned bravely that showed me no 
spark ; 
Whilst all owned Nature's spells, I saw no 

charming, 
And still kept cold whilst others were a wann- 
ing. 

" When suddenly my eyea threw ope their doors 
And sunny looks flashed in their fond desires ; 
The chambers of my heart found glowing floors 
For there each hearth blazed with continual 
fires : 
I saw the magic, felt the bliss 'twas bringing, 
And knew the source whence these delights 
were springing. 

" For then it was indifference met its death, 
And my new life new climates seemed to 
seek; 
The sweet south flung its odors from thy breath, 
And the warm East came blushing o'er thy 
cheek. 
Thy smiles were endless Summer's rosy dance*. 
And the soft zone shone in thy torrid glances, 

" And as thy wondrous beauty I beheld. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



189 



A thousaud unknown raptures on me came ; 
The flood of life by some strange power im- 
pelled, 
Rushed through its channels, turned to liquid 
flame ; 
And then with me there seemed such blooming 

weather, 
As though all seasons showered their flowers 
together. 

" And as I basked in thy subduing gaze, 

And caught the thrilling spirit of thy smile ; 

I marvelled I had lived so many days 
So blind, so cold, so ignorant the while ; 

' Certes,' quoth I, ' I've been in far off places, 

Else had I sooner known such moving graces. 

" Ay — in strange latitudes and unknown waves, 
Having no compass, aid of chart denied, 

There rose before me mountains, plains, and 
caves, 
And a new world my curious vision spied : 

And then it was that fair country, thy beauty, 

Brought me to anchor — a most welcome duty. 

" To turn discovery to best account, 

I studied every feature of the land ; 
I scanned where'er the highest fruit could 
mount, 
I touched the tender produce of thy hand ; 
And every where such heaps of sweets were 

growing, 
No place on earth could be so worth the know- 
ing. 

" Then having this bright world so newly found, 
And learned its fitness for an honest home, 

Must I be now on a fresh voyage bound, 
Again in unknown latitudes to roam 1 

Oh might I name it, hold it, own it, rather, 

And from its spoil a matchless fortune gather ! 

" Dear heart ! sweet life ! most admirable fair 
saint ! 
To thee my soul its fond devotion brings, 
Like a poor pilgrim weary, worn, and faint 

To taste the comfort which thy beauty brings : 
Hear how thy praise all excellence excelleth ! 
Hear how my prayer within my worship dwel- 
leth ! 

" Believe me the fond charm thou dost possess, 
Is not a gift meant to be idly used, 

But a kind solace that should come to bless 
That heart whose blessings thou hast not re- 
fused. 

I see it in a promise and a token 

Of flowery bands that never can be broken. 

" And now like those bold mariners of ships, 
That from all ports do take their merchan- 
dize 
My bark would I unlaid upon thy lips, 



Which awhile since I freighted at thine eyes, 
Yet e'er from such kind port my sails are fad- 
ing, 
Doubt not I bear away a richer lading. 

" Bring here the ivory of thy fair arms, 

And lustrous jewels which thine eyelids 

hold, 

Bring here the crowning of thy store of charms, 

The silky treasures which thy brows enfold ; 

Bring here the luscious fruits thy soft cheek 

beareth, 
And those rare pearls and rubies thy mouth 
weareth ! 

" But that which doth them all in rareness 
beat — 
The choicest traffic brought from loving 
isles — 
Bring me the dainty balm and odorous sweet, 

That fills thy tempting treasury of smiles : 
That whilst I'm filled with beauty's precious 

blisses, 
Thou makest me — an argosie of kisses !" 

It was 6carce possible to have met with a 
prettier sight than the yeoman's blooming 
daughter listening with her eyes sparkling 
unutterable pleasure, as the young poet read 
to her her tuneful praises. The wheel went 
round, but she spoke not a word. Indeed 
she would not hazard so much as a syllable, 
fearful she might by it lose some part of 
those, to her, exquisite verses. At the con- 
clusion, wherein his voice sunk to a tremu- 
lous soft murmur, he lifted his gaze from 
the paper to the flushed countenance of his 
fair companion, and received a glance 
he could not fail to understand. Upon a 
sudden, his arm fell from the back of her 
chair, and encircled her girdle, and — and — 
and the wheel stopped for a full minute. 

" Humph I" exclaimed a familiar voice, 
close at hand, and starting from their affec- 
tionate embrace, they beheld John Hatha- 
way with that peculiar expression peeping 
from the corners of his eyes and mouth, 
which marked the more than ordinary plea- 
sure he took in anything. In a moment 
the blushing Anne was diligently looking 
on the ground for something she had never 
lost ; and her youthful lover, in quite as 
rosy a confusion, was gallantly assisting her 
to find it To the father's sly question the 
daughter answered a little from the purpose ; 
and as for the young poet he all at once re- 
membered some pressing duty that called 
him thence, took a hurried leave of hia 
friend the yeoman, who was evidently 
laughing in his sleeve the whilst, and with 
a quick fond glance, repaid with interest, tc 



140 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



his fair mistress — whose sprightlmess had 
somehow forsaken her — he wended his way 
back to Stratford. 

In very truth, he was in far too happy a 
state to have stayed where he was, and a 
third person by. His feelings were in a 
complete tumult ; his thoughts in a delicious 
confusion. He felt as if he could have 
taken the whole world in his arms, he was 
on such friendly terms with every one. He 
experienced the delightful consciousness of 
being loved — to him a new and rare enjoy- 
ment — and his was a disposition fitted to re- 
ceive it with a sense of such extreme plea- 
sure as humanity hath seldom known. 
What were his thoughts when he could get 
to any reasonable thinking — or his feelings, 
when he returned to his ordinary sensations, 
£ cannot take upon me to say ; but all point- 
ed to one subject, and rose from one subject ; 
and whether he regarded himself or the 
world around him, it came to the same matter. 
To him everything was Anne Hathaway; 
but especially all wisdom, goodness, beauty, 
and delight, took from her their existence, 
and gave to her their qualities. She was, in 
brief, the sun round which the rest of crea- 
tion must needs take its course. In this 
excitement of mind and heart he proceeded 
on his path, only brought to a more sober 
state as he neared home. It so happened, 
at the outskirts of the town, his attention 
was forcibly attracted by the riotous shout- 
ing of a crowd round the horse pond. 

" Prithee tell me, what meaneth this huge 
disturbance ?" inquired he of one of the 
knot of old women, who beating the end of 
her stick furiously on the ground, knocked 
together her pointed nose, and chin, as she 
poked her head towards one, and then to- 
wards another, with all the thorough earn- 
estness of a confirmed gossip. 

"Meaneth it?" replied Mother Flytrap, 
in her eraeked treble, as she rested her two 
hands upon her stick, and thrust her ancient 
visage close to the face of the querist. " By 
my fackings, it meaneth the very horriblest, 
infamousness that ever was seen in this 
mortal world. But it's what we must all 
come to." 

"Ay, marry — flesh is grass!" said an- 
other old beldame. 

"But I have my doubts — I have my doubts, 
gossip," mumbled out another of the tribe ; 
" it hath been credibly said strange lights 
and unchristian noises have appeared in her 
cottage ; and I did myself see, standing at 
her door, the very broom some do say she 
flies through the air upon." 

u Odds codlings, hast though, indeed !" in- 



quired Mother Flytrap, with something like 
horror muffled up in the hues of her parch- 
ment skin. "Well, if she be a witch, she 
must either drown or swim — that's one com- 
fort." 

" Who's a witch ?" asked William Shak- 
speare, who had turned from one to the 
other of his companions, in a vain hope of 
getting the intelligence he required. 

" God's precious ! who but Nurse Cicely, 
that hath bewitched Farmer Clodpole's 
cows," replied one of the women; and 
scarce were the words out of her mouth, 
when the young poet, with an infinite small 
show of gallantry, pushed his way through 
them, and rushed with all his force into the 
crowd. The outcries he heard seemed to 
him the yells of savage beasts eager for 
blood. Shouts of " In with her !" — " Drown 
the old witch !" and all sorts of oaths and 
ribald expressions came to his ears, with the 
half-choked screaming of their victim. He 
thrust himself forward, pushing the crowd 
to the right and to the left, till he stood upon 
the brink of the pond ; and just beheld his 
faithful old nurse emerging from the water, 
gasping for breath, while some dozen or so 
of rude ploughboys, butchers, and the like 
characters, kept encouraging one another in 
helping to drown the poor creature. With- 
out a word said, William Shakspeare sprung 
upon the busiest of the lot, and tumbled him 
into the pond, evidently to the exceeding 
pleasure of the majority of the spectators. 
Perchance, his companions would have re- 
sented this, but directly young Shakspeare 
made his appearance, a throng of his old 
associates hurried from all parts of the 
crowd, and made a simultaneous rush upon 
the tormentors of the poor nurse, by which 
help, divers of them were presently sent 
floundering alongside of their fellow, the 
which the lookers on seemed to enjoy above 
all things. 

Whilst Humphrey, now growing to be 
monstrous valiant, Green, Burbage, Hem 
ings, and Condell were, with others of a like 
spirit, putting to flight such of the lewu 
villains as seemed inclined to stand out upon 
the matter, William Shakspeare carefully 
drew Nurse Cicely out of the pond, untied 
her bonds, and bore her, all dripping as she 
was, to her own cottage, where, with the 
assistance of some humane neighbors, he at 
last succeeded in rescuing her from the 
death with which she had been threatened. 
The gratitude of the poor creature was be- 
yond all conceiving ; and at last the object 
of it felt obliged to take himself out of hear* 



THE TOJTJ 0? SHAKSPEARE. 



141 



ing of her earnest prodigal thankfulness and 
praise. 

Among the observers of the scene just de- 
scribed, regarding the chief personage in it 
with more intentness than any there, was a 
somewhat crabbed-looking man, meanly clad, 
who, from beside a tree a little above the 
pond, had witnessed the whole transaction. 
When the woman was rescued, he followed 
her deliverer at some distance, accosting 
none, and replying to such as were hardy 
enough to speak to him, in so rough unman- 
nerly a manner few sought acquaintance 
with him. Whilst William Shakspeare was 
in the cottage, this person loitered at a little 
way from it, occasionally leaning on his 
staff, with his eyes fixed on the ground — then 
glancing at the cottage-door, and strolling 
leisurely about without losing sight of it. 

As the young poet was hastening from his 
old nurse's dwelling, in a famous pleasure 
with the result of his exertions, he heard 
some one clo.se at his heels. Presently, a 
hand was laid upon his shoulder, and turn- 
ing round, he beheld John a Combe, the 
usurer. He had long been familiar with his 
person, having met with him before fre- 
quently, and had imbibed a respect for his 
character from the favorable opinions of him 
expressed by his parents. Such portion of 
his history as was known he had been made 
acquainted with from many sources, but the 
mystery which had enveloped him since his 
extraordinary change, he never had acquired 
any more knowledge of than the rest of his 
townsfolk. 

" Dost shrink from me, boy ?" inquired 
John a Combe, in a sharp thick voice, as he 
noticed a sudden start of surprise in the 
youth when he recognized the usurer. " Art 
ashamed of being seen with Old Ten in the 
Hundred ? Wouldst desire no acquain- 
tance with one whose heart clingeth to his 
gold, and shutteth his soul against all sym- 
pathy with humanity ?" 

" I think not of you in that way, Master 
Combe, believe me," replied his young com- 
panion, With his usual gentle courtesy. 

■" Then thou art a fool, Will Snakspeare !" 
gruffly exclaimed the other ; heed thou the 
general voice. Ask of whomsoever thou 
wilt concerning of John a Combe, the usurer. 
Will they not tell thee he is a very heartless 
tyrant, who liveth upon the widow's sighs 
and the orphan's tears, — who grinds the 
poor man's bones, and drinks the prodigal's 
blood ? Do they not swear in the very 
movingest execrations he is a persecuting 
relentless enemy to all his race, who careth 
only to set baits for their carcases, and 
whea he hath got them in his toils, showeth 



them no more mercy than a hungry wolf?" 

" I never heard of such things," replied 
William Shakspeare. " Indeed, I have known 
divers speak of you as having shown such 
honorable good qualities as entitled you to 
the love of all honest men." 

" Then were they greater fools than thou 
art," sharply exclaimed John a Combe, ' ; I 
tell thee I am such a one. I find my hap- 
piness in the misery of others. I live whea 
my fellows die. My heart is but a pedest.tl 
that carryeth a golden image, at which I 
force all the children of want to bow them- 
selves down, and then trample on their necks 
to make me sport." 

" In very truth, I can believe nothing of it, 
worthy sir," observed his young companion. 
" Methinks too, what you have said is so op- 
posite to what I have heard from the credi- 
blest testimony you have done, that it is too 
unnatural to be true. Was it not Master 
Cvymbe, who spent his substance freely to 
better the condition of his poorer neighbors ? 
Was it not Master Combe, who~held his life 
as at a pin's fee, to guard his fellow creatures 
from the destroying pestilence ?" 

" Ay, I was once of that monstrous folly," 
said the usurer with great bitterness ; " I 
carried wine in a sieve — only to be spilled 
upon barren ground. What have I learned 
by this prodigal expenditure and silly pains- 
taking? The notable discovery that nfen 
are knaves and women wantons — that friend- 
ship is a farce and love a cheat — that ho- 
nesty is a fool and honor a bubble — and that 
the whole world hath but one particular in- 
fluence on which its existence holds — and 
that is utter villainy." 

" As far as I have seen, everything of 
which you have spoken hath an entire dif- 
ference," said the other. " That there may 
be bad men amongst the good I cannot take 
upon me to deny ; but that this should con- 
demn all mankind for vileness, seemeth ex- 
ceeding unjust. According to what I have 
learned, man in favorable circumstances will 
generally be found possessed of the best 
qualities of manhood ; and such is the natural 
excellence of his nature that even under most 
unlit occasions the proper graces of humanity 
will flourish in him as bravely as though they 
had the most tender culture." 

" Tut !" cried John a Combe, impatiently : 
" 'tis the opinion of such as have gained their 
knowledge in closets. They take for granted 
what is told them, and their poor pride will 
not allow of their crediting anything that is 
to the prejudice of their own natures." 

" And as for woman," continued the youn-j 
poet more earnestly, " 'tis hard to say one 
word against a creature so excellently gifted 



14S 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Methinks she would make praise a beggar, 
by her worthiness taking all he hath !" 

" Ha J ha !" exclaimed the usurer in a sort 
of scornful laugh. " Why, boy, thy nature 
is in a rare humor to be cozened. Didst ever 
hear of any particular villainy out-viling all 
things, that did not come of a woman ? Who 
was it that first held fellowship with a serpent 
for man's undoing, — on which occasion she 
showed how near her disposition was to the 
crawling crafty venom of her chosen asso- 
ciate. But she soon outdid the reptile in his 
own vocation ; and now her craft would 
laugh the fox to scorn, and her guile cheat 
the serpent to his face." 

" I should be loath to think so ill of her, 
having had most convincing proofs of her 
different character," said the youthful Shaks- 
peare, with a very pleasurable remembrance 
of one at least of that sex. " For mine own 
part I conceive there is no telling all her 
goodness ; but I do remember some senten- 
ces in which it doth appear to me her true 
nature is most admirably painted, and they 
are these : — ' of her excellence I would con- 
tent myself with asking — what virtue is like 
to a woman's ? What honesty is like to a 
woman's ? — What love— what courage — 
what truth — what generousness— what self- 
denial— what patience under affliction, and 
forgiveness for every wrong, come at all 
nigh unto such as a woman showeth ? 
Believe me, the man who cannot honor so 
truly divine a creature, is an ignorant poor 
fellow, whom it would be a compliment to 
style a fool, — or an ungrateful mean wretch, 
whom charity preventeth me from calling 
a villain !' Said you not these words, Master 
Combe, for I have been told they were of your 
own speaking ?" 

" Doubtless !" exclaimed John a Combe 
with a sarcastic emphasis. " I was, when I 
uttered such words, as thou art now — moved 
by a strong belief in the existence of quali- 
ties with which my wishes were more fami- 
liar than my vision. Appearances looked 
fair, and I took for granted all things were 
what they seemed. But of most choice mat- 
ters woman seemed infinitely the rarest. 
There is nought I would not have said, there 
is nought I would not have done, to prove how 
far aboye ordinary merit I thought her ex- 
ceeding' excellence. I was a fool — a poor, 
ignorant, weak fool, who will readily take 
brass well gilt for the sterling metal. I had 
to learn my lesson, and in good time it was 
thoroughly taught me. Experience rubbed 
off the external show of worth that had chea- 
ted mine eyes into admiration and my heart 
into respect ; and the base stuff in all its 
baseness stood manifestly confessed before 



me. Woman!" added ht with increasing 
bitterness, " go search the stagnant ditch that 
fills the air with petilential poison — where 
toads and snakes fester among rotting weeds, 
and make a reeking mass of slime and filth 
around them, — I tell thee, boy, nothing of all 
that vileness approacheth to the baseness of 
her disposition. Woman ! She is an outrage 
upon nature, and a libel upon humanity. — A 
fair temptation that endeth in most foul dis- 
appointment. — The very apples on the shores 
of the dead sea, that are all blooming with- 
out and all rottenness within — a thing that 
hath never been truly described save under 
those shapes believed in a past religion, whose 
features were human, and whose person 
bestial. Woman ! She is. the mother of in- 
famy, ready to play the wanton with all the 
vices, and fill the world with a fruitful pro- 
geny of crimes. She is the cozener of hon- 
esty — the mockery of goodness — a substan- 
tial deceit — a living lie !" 

" I pray you pardon me," said his young 
companion ; " these are most intolerable ac- 
cusations, and no warrant for them as I can 
see." 

" Warrant !" cried the usurer, now with 
his whole frame trembling with excitement ; 
" I have had such warrant — such damnable 
warrant, as leaveth me not the shadow of a 
doubt on the matter. I have heard — I have 
seen — I have felt !" continued he grasping 
the shoulder of the youth convulsively, then 
seeming to make a mighty effort to conquer 
his emotions, which for a moment appeared 
almost to choke him, he added in a calmer 
voice — " But it matters not. Perchance thou 
wilt have the wit to discover all that I would 
have said. I am in no mind to let the gossips 
of the town meddle with my secrets. I like 
not they should say ' poor John a Combe !' 
for I care not to have their pity. Say not tot 
any thou hast spoke to me on such a subject 
and when thou hast a mind to pass an hour 
with Ten in the Hundred come to my dwel- 
ling ; I should be glad to see thee, which I 
would say of no other person. Thou art the 
son of an honest man, and I have seen signs 
in thee that prove thou art worthy of thy 
father." Saying these words, John a Combe 
hastily took his departure down a turning in 
the 6treet, leaving William Shakspeare mar- 
velling hugely at what had passed between 
them. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



143 



CHAPTER XXI. 

Follow a shadow, it still flies you, 
Seek to fly, it will pursue ; 

Lo court a mistress, she denies you, 
Let her alone she will court you. 

Ben Jonson. 

"And now I "dare say," said Sir Robert, 
* that Sir Launcelot, though there thou liest, 
thou wert never matched of none earthly 
knight's hands. And thou wert the curtiest 
knight that ever beare shield. And thou wert 
the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrod 
horse. And thou wert the truest lover of a 
sinful man that ever loved woman. And thou 
wert the kindest man that ever stroke with 
sword. And thou wert the goodliest person 
that ever came among presse of knights. And 
thou wert the meekest and the gentlest that 
ever eat in hall among ladies." 

A book of the noble historyes of Kings Ar~ 
t'liir, and of certeyn of his knightes. 

6m Valentine found be had undertaken 
ft most hard duty. The more he essayed to 
struggle with his own inclinations, the more 
strongly they rose against such usage. He 
tried to preach himself into a cheerful acqui- 
escence with the obligation imposed upon 
him, from every text of honor, friendship, 
and chivalry, with which he was acquainted, 
but he found nature rather an unwilling con- 
vert, as she is at all* time when her faith 
already resteth upon the religion of love. 
Nevertheless, he determined to do Sir Regi- 
nald the promised service, however difficult 
of accomplishment it might be. In very 
truth he was one of those rare instances of 
friendship that act up to the character they 
profess. In numberless cases there are per- 
sons calling themselves friends, who are 
friends only to themselves. They are ready 
enough to take the name, but shrink from a 
proper performance of the character. Friend- 
ship in its honorablest state is a continual 
self-sacrifice on the altar of social feeling, 
combined with a devotion which ever incli- 
neth to exalt the object of its regard above 
all humanity. A true friend alloweth him- 
self as it were to be the shadow of another's 
merit, attending on all his wants, hopes, and 

Eleasures, and ever keeping of himself in the 
ack ground when he is like to interfere with 
his happiness. And yet there have been 
such despicable mean spirits who would hide 
their contemptibleness under so fair a cloak. 
They profess friendship but they act selfish- 
ness. Nay, to such a pitch do they debase 
themselves, that they would behold unfeel- 
ingly him they call their friend pining away 
his heart for some long expected happiness, 
and basely rob him of it when it required but 



their assistance to insure it to nis glad poMM* 
sion. 

The young knight was of a far different 
sort. Even with so powerful a competitor 
as love, he would give himself entirely t» 
friendship. He knew that the assistance he 
had promised to render his friend would cost 
him his own happiness, but he could not for 
a moment tolerate the idea of building his 
enjoyment with the materials of his friend's 
felicity. He believed that if Sir Reginald 
knew what were his feelings towards the 
object of their mutual affection, he would on 
the instant resign his pretensions, that his 
friend's hopes might not be disappointed ; 
and therefore the young knight was the 
more resolute in fulfilling the wishes of his 
faithful companion, and as an important step 
towards the consummation, kept the secret of 
his own love locked up closely in his breast. 
He heard Sir Reginald again express his 
desires, and again did he declare his readi- 
ness to„assist in their realization. He saw 
his friend depart to join Sir Philip Sydney, 
and experienced an exquisite satisfaction in 
knowing that the other had left him without 
the slightest suspicion of his own true feel- 
ings. 

Time passed on, and Sir Valentine strove 
to perform his task. He had seen but little 
of Mabel for a long time past, for she scarce 
ever ventured alone any distance from the 
house, fearing she might be again carried 
off as she had been before ; and this accoun- 
ted for her not having been seen for so long 
a period by the youthful Shakspeare. At 
last the young knight contrived to speak with 
her, and his entreaties for her private com- 
pany, to acquaint her with a matter of some 
importance it was necessary she should know, 
she named a spot in the park where she would 
meet him that evening after dusk. And 
there she attended true to her appointment 
Sir Valentine as he gazed upon her admir- 
able beauty, felt that he had much to per- 
form, but he tried all he could to stifle his 
feelings, and think of no other thing save 
the advancement of his friend's wishes. 
Alack ! he was setting about a most peri- 
lous task. To play the suitor of an exqui 
site fair creature as proxy for another, 
methinks for one of his youth and disposition 
was great temptation ; but having already 
loved her with all the ardor of a first fond 
affection, now to woo her merely as the 
representative of his friend, looks to be a 
thing out of the course of nature. 

" Methinks this friend of yours must need 
have . taken entire possession of your 
thoughts," observed Mabel, with a smile, up- 
on finding that at every interview the young 



144 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



knight could say nought but praise of Sir 
Reginald. " I cannot get you to talk of any 
other thing." 

" Indeed, so gallant a gentleman and so 
perfect a knight doth not exist," replied Sir 
Valentine. " I have seen him, lady, in the 
tnickest of the field, bearing himself so 
bravely as was the marvel of both foes and 
friends." 

" And were you in that battle ?" inquired 
she, with a singular curiousness ; " I pray 
you tell me how it was fought. I should 
like much to hear what share you had in it. 
I doubt not you behaved very gallantly." 

" I kept in«the press as nigh to Sir Regi- 
nald as I could," continued the young knight ; 
'•- for I knew that much honor was only to 
be reaped where he led the way. Truly he 
is a knight of most approved valor." 

" I cannot doubt it, since you have so said," 
replied Mabel, impatiently. " But I beseech 
you leave all speech of him, and take to tel- 
ling me of your own knightly achieve- 
ments." 

" By this light, lady, I am nought in com- 
parison with Sir Reginald," said his friend, 
earnestly: "never met I a gentleman so 
worthy of the love of woman. Indeed I 
know he is kindly esteemed of many noble 
dames ; yet in his estimation all such have 
been but indifferently thought of, since his 
knowledge of your so much brighter perfec- 
tions." 

" Surely, he doth great wrong to those 
noble dames by thinking at all of me," ob- 
served the fair foundling. 

" He doth consider you so pre-eminent in 
excellence, language cannot express his ad- 
miration," added Sir Valentine. 

" I feel bound to him for his good opinion," 
eaid Mabel. " Yet I should have been glad 
had he shown more discretion than in be- 
stowing it so prodigally." 

" The love of so noble a knight ought to 
be regarded as a most costly jewel," contin- 
ued the young knight. " I cannot think so 
proud a gift is to be met with." 

" Perchance f not," replied his companion, 
coldly. "Yet I cannot say it hath any par- 
ticular attractions in my eyes." 

Here was a new difficulty to be overcome. 
The lovely object of his friend's attachment 
cared not to be loved by him. This he had 
not calculated upon. Sir Reginald's happi- 
ness appeared farther from his possession 
than Sir Valentine could have imagined. 
Nevertheless, the latter was not to be daunted 
by such an appearance. 

Mabel had by this time met Sir Valentine 
many times, almost with as much confi- 



dence as she had known at their first inter 
views, for she had neither seen nor heard o! 
her noble gallant and the villains his asso- 
ciates, since her escape. The young knight, 
at his earliest convenience, had rode to the 
house for the express purpose of punishing 
the traitor for his intended villainy, when he 
found the place shut up close and deserted, 
and none could tell him where its late in- 
mates had gone ; from which it was argued 
they had left that part of the country out of 
fear their offences had been discovered. 
N evertheless, it was not till recently the poor 
foundling could hazard herself by walking in 
the park, as she had used ; though, to make 
her venturing as secure as possible, Sir Val- 
entine, from a neighboring eminence, 
watched, on a fleet steed, her coming and 
returning. In truth, the chiefest pleasure 
she had was meeting this gallant gentleman ; 
and she could think of no evil when she 
found him leading of his palfrey by the bn 
die, walking at her side in some retired part 
of the grounds ; or having tied the animal to 
a branch, standing by her under the shelter 
of a neighboring tree, entertaining of her 
with his choice discourse. Still did she 
listen with manifest disrelish to whatever 
the young knight reported of his friend, and 
the more admired the honorableness of the 
speaker, without caring a whit for the object 
of his eulogy. She had noticed that of late 
such tender gallantries as he had been ac- 
customed to exhibit, he had altogether with- 
drawn, and this she regarded with especial 
uneasiness. He was always repeating his 
friend's opinion of her, and ceased to say one 
word of his own thoughts on that subject ; 
and this behavior in him pleased her not at 
all. She often considered the matter very 
intently, and upon coming to the conclusion 
she had become indifferent to him, it put her 
into a great discomfort. It hath already been 
said she had some pride in her — pride in its 
gracefullest shape — and at such instigation 
it was like to be called into action ; but if it 
did show itself, it came so garmented in hu- 
mility, that none would have known it for 
what it was, save those nobler natures with 
whom such appearances are familiar. 

" I am much grieved at noticing of this 
change in you," said Mabel to her compan- 
ion, on one occasion. " If you think of me 
unworthily, methinks il would more become 
your gallant disposition to tell me in what I 
am amiss, or go seek the company of some 
more proper person. Should I have lost 
your esteem I cannot be fit for your soci- 
ety." 

" O' my life, I do esteem you above all 
creatures!" exclaimed the young knujfai, 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



145 



fervently, and then, as if recollecting of him- 
self, added, " for one that is so highly es- 
teemed of my noble friend, cannot but be 
worthy of my highest estimation." 

u Truly, I would rather you rated me at 
vcur own judgment, than followed the ap- 
preciation of any other," observed the beau- 
aful foundling, in something like a tone of 
disappointment. 

" Then, be assured, I rate you at a value 
immeasurably beyond all other estimation !" 
earnestly exclaimed Sir Valentine. 

" Indeed !" murmured the defighted Ma- 
oel. 

" I mean — I would so esteem you, were I 
'he worthy Sir Reginald," added the young 
knight, quickly. 

"Ah, me ! it is ever Sir Reginald with 
you !" cried his fair companion, in evident 
dejectedness. " Against Sir Reginald's 
worthiness I could not say one word, because 
vou have affirmed it; but I do declare to 
vou, for the hundredth time, I heed it no 
more than if I never heard of it !" 

" But surely you will not allow h^ honor- 
able regard of you to come to an unprofitable 
ending ?" said Sir Valentine, in a famous 
moving manner. " O' my life, he deserveth 
not his fortunes should be of such desperate 
issue. I beseech you, think better of his 
princely qualities. I pray you, have proper 
consideration of his noble character." 

" 'Tis impossible that J can regard him as 
he is desirous I should," observed the other. 

" And why not ?" inquired the young 
knight. " Allow me at least the privilege 
of asking your reason for leaving to intoler- 
able wretchedness, one who would devote 
his heart to your service ?" 

" Tell him," said Mabel — sinking of her 
voice almost to a whisper— " tell him I re- 
gard another so entirtiy, no one else can 
have footing in my thoughts." 

" Alack ! what ill news for him !" ex- 
claimed Sir Valentine. " But think me not 
over bold at asking of you, is he so worthy 
— is he so noble — is he so valiant a knight, 
and so true a gentleman, as my poor friend ?" 

" Ay, that is he, I am assured !" cried the 
poor foundling, with an earnestness that 
came from the heart. 

" Truly, I thought not such another ex- 
isted," replied the young knight. " Indeed, 
I would willingly go any distance to meet 
with so estimable a person." 

" Methinks you need not go far to find 
him," murmured Mabel, as she bent her 
looks so upon the ground her long eye-lashes 
appeared perfectly closed. Sir Valentine 
was silent for some few minutes. He could 
sot mistake the meaninsr of her words. At 



first the gratification they gave him was be- 
yond conception exquisite ; but then fol- 
lowed the reflection, how poorly he would be 
playing the part he had undertaken, did h.6 
attempt in any way to take advantage of the 
confession she had just made. 

" In all honesty, I must say, this person 
you so honor hath not a tithe of the merit of 
Sir Reginald," said the young knight, in a 
voice that faltered somewhat. " Neither in 
the suitable accomplishments of a knight, 
nor in the honorable gifts of a man, can he 
for a moment be compared with my gallant 
friend. I beseech you, let not one so little 
worthy of your regard, receive of you the 
estimation which should only belong to one 
so truly deserving of it as the noble Sir Re- 
ginald." 

" I see ! I see !" exclaimed the poor 
foundling, exceedingly moved by this speech 
of her companion. " You cannot disguise 
it from me, strive you ever so. I have fallen 
from your esteem. I have lost your respect. 
Fare you well, sweet sir. This must be ouf 
last meeting. I hold your noble qualities 
too deeply in my reverence to allow of their 
standing hazard of debasement by their as- 
sociation with any unworthiness." 

In vain the young knight gave her all 
manner of assurances she was the highest 
in his esteem — in vain- he sought the help of 
entreaties and persuasions she would stay 
and hear the reason of his so behaving, she 
seemed bent on leaving him that moment, 
with a full determination never to see him 
more. At last, however, she yielded so far 
as to promise to meet him the next evening 
at the same place, for the last time, and then 
returned home in a greater sadness than she 
had ever known. From that hour to the 
hour appointed for this final interview, Sir 
Valentine passed in considering what course 
he should adopt under these trying circum- 
stances. On one side was the happiness of 
his absent friend entrusted to his custody — 
on the other, the affections of a most beauti- 
ful sweet creature he had obtained by seek- 
ing of her society. Honor demanded of him 
he should not do his friend disadvantage, 
and love entreated he would not abandon 
his mistress now that he had completely won 
her heart. The more he thought the less 
easy seemed his duty, for he saw that in 
each case if he attended to the claim of one, 
it would destroy every hope of the other. 

Mabel was true to her appointment. Sir 
Valentine rode up to her, and as usual tied 
his horse to a branch. The customary 
greetings passed, and the young knight ob- 
served that his fair companion looked wond 
rous pale and agitated. 



146 



THE lOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



" What hatli so moved you ?" inquired he, 
courteously. 

" Hitherto I have thougnt myself safe 
from further molestation from the villains 
into whose power I once fell," replied Mabel. 
u But I have just discovered that they are 
again pursuing of their treacherous inten- 
tions." 

"I pray you tell me where I may find 
them," said Sir Valentine, with a most ear- 
nest eagerness. " I promise you they shall 
molest you no longer." 

" I thank you with all my heart !" ex- 
claimed the poor foundling fervently ; " yet 
your interference can be of no avail at this 
time. The very traitor who bore me forci- 
bly from this park, and from whose base 
grasp you previously rescued me in the gar- 
dens of Kenilworth, is now being entertained 
by Sir Thomas Lucy." 

" Surely Sir Thomas when he is told of 
his baseness, will drive him from his house !" 
observed the young knight. 

" He will hear of nothing against him — 
nor will Dame Lucy," answered Mabel. 
* They say I am mistaken, though I could 
swear to him among a thousand. They 
will have it he is a person of worship, whom 
they have known many years ; yet I am con- 
rinced he is as paltry a wretch as ever dis- 
graced this world." 

" By this hght, dear Mabel, I will go and 
make' him confess his villainy !" cried Sir 
Valentine, moving, as if he would to the house 
on the instant. 

," I beseech you, do not, sweet sir," im- 
plored his fair companion, as she caught 
hold of him by the arm. " Ever since my 
escape I have lived a most unhappy life, 
though never made I any complaint, — for 
both the justice and the dame will have it I 
must have been greatly to blame, else none 
would have laid a hand on me ; and say what 
I would, I could not persuade them of my 
innocency. Of all persons living, they look 
on you with greatest suspicion, though I am 
certain you have given them not a shadow 
of cause, ar*d your appearance at this or any 
time would do me more mischief than you 
can imagir j." 

" But it 'jannot be that you are to be left ' 
to this ui civil treatment," exclaimed the 
other urgently. " I will not allow of a 
thing so monstrous. Never heard I such 
unjust, i anatural usage. It must not be 
suffered." 

" Ind«"5d it must — for there is no honest 
way of escaping from it as I can see," an- 
gwemd he poor foundling. " There is some 
BCbemo afoot, I feel assured, else why is the 
caitiff ' here — and that evil is intended me 



by it, I have had more than sufficient proofs 
or I should not have known him to be the 
villain he is ; but as yet I know not in what 
shape it will come. I am in terrible appre- 
hension of the worst, yet I see not how I can 
avoid it if it visit me." 

" There is one way," said Sir Valentine, 
whose feelings had been put into such ex- 
treme excitement, he could think of nothing 
but the safety of the fair creature who seem- 
ed now so completely thrown on him for 
protection. "There is but one way, dearest 
Mabel," repeated he, in a fonder tone than 
he had allowed himself to use a long while. 
" If you have that regard for me you have 
expressed, and will not be moved to favor 
my friend's suit, I beseech you honor me to 
that extent as would lead you to trust your 
happiness to my keeping ; and I promise you 
by the word of a true knight, I will carry 
you from the evils with which you are threat- 
ened, to the sure refuge of my kinsman's 
house, where without delay I will give my- 
self that firm title to be your protector which 
can only be gained from the honorable bonds 
of marriage." 

" Marriage ?" repeated Mabel, with a 
more unhappy aspect than she had yet 
shown. " Surely, you have been all this 
time in a strange ignorance : and I too — 
methinks I have been in a dream. That 
word hath fully wakened me. I see n©w, 
for the first time, how I have been dressing 
up my heart in shadows. Oh, how great 
hath been my folly ! I have sought what I 
thought an innocent pleasure from sources 
as far above my reach as are the stars. — 
Alas, what extreme thoughtlessness ! what 
marvellous self-delusion !," 

" What meaneth this ?" inquired the young 
knight, full of wonder at this sudden change 
in her. 

" Know you not, honorable sir, I am only 
a poor foundling ?" asked Mabel earnestly. 
" Have you not heard I am a poor friendless 
creature, picked up by chance, and fostered 
by charity ?" . . 

" In very truth, I have not," replied Sir 
Valentine, surprised at hearing such intelli- 
gence. 

" Then such I am," said the poor found- 
ling. " Nay, I am so poorly off, that even 
the very name I bear is a stranger's gift. — 
Mother or father have I never known ; and 
such is my mean estate that I cannot claim 
kindred with any of ever so humble a sort. 
Oh, would you had known o( this before, f 
am much to blame for not telling you of i* 
sooner ; but in all honesty, sweet sir, it neve* 
entered my thoughts." 

" That I have remained ignorant of wb*» 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



147 



yon have just told me, is mine own fault 
only," replied her companion. " But I can- 
not think of drawing back from my engage- 
ments at such a discovery. Rich or poor, 
noble or simple, you are the same admirable 
fair creature I have so long loved, and that 
hath honored me with her regard, therefore 
if you will trust yourself to my care, doubt 
not of obtaining at least the respect my poor 
name can bestow upon you." 

" It cannot be !" exclaimed the other de- 
terminedly. " I could never do you so nota- 
ble a wrong as to thrust my meanness into 
your honorable family. I could not bear yOu 
to be ashamed of me, and such it must needs 
come to when any put questions to you of 
your wife's lineage. Oh, I now see more 
and more how ill I have acted in seeking of 
your society. I enjoyed the present moment, 
totally regardless of the bar between us, that 
divided our fortunes an impassable distance. 
I beseech you to forgive me, honorable sir. 
As quickly as you can, forget that one of 
such humble fortunes as your unhappy Ma- 
bel ever existed. I would not I should give 
you a moment's uneasiness. As for myself, 
whatever may be my wretched fate, or how- 
ever degraded my condition, I shall have a 
happiness in my thoughts which will ever 
rank me with the most worthy, for I can re- 
member I have attained to such proud eleva- 
tion as to be the love of the noblest, truest, 
and most perfect gentleman fond heart ever 
loved." 

" Dearest ! sweetest life !" cried Sir Val- 
entine, passionately clasping her in his em- 
braces. Mabel for a few moments allowed 
herself to receive his endearments, then sud- 
denly tore herself from his arms, looking more 
pale and sad than before. 

" This must not be," exclaimed she, with a 
desperate effort, as she motioned him back. 
" If you will not break my heart, I pray you, 
— I beseech you, honorable sir, grant me one 
request." 

" Willingly," replied the young knight, for 
tears were on her eyelids, and she looked on 
him so movingly, he could have refused her 
nothing. 

" Never approach me again," said the hap- 
less Mabel, in a voice almost stifled by her 
feelings. " Nay," exclaimed she, with more 
firmness, as she noticed he appeared about 
to speak, " if you hold me in any respect — 
if I am not the abject thing in your eyes, I 
am with the rest of the world, seek not to 
hinder me in my resolution. I must see 
you no more. I cannot — will not allow of 
another meeting. On reflection, your own 
honorable nature will assure you that this is 
M much for my welfare as your own. May 



the sweetest happiness that should crown 
such nobleness as yours wait upon all your 
doings. Again, and for the la3t time, honor- 
able sir ! — fare you well !■" 

" Mabel ! dear, sweet Mabel ! I beseech 
you leave me not thus ! I will not live with- 
out you ! I cannot love another !" 

" Truly, this is playing a friend's part, Sir 
Valen^njgJ" cried Sir Reginald, rudely 
graspingthe young knight by the arm, as 
he seemed about to follow the retreating 
Mabel. "Why, thou pitiful traitor! thou 
shame to knighthood — thou dishonor to 
friendship ! What demon hath tempted 
thee to such villainous doings ? By my 
troth, now, had I not seen this with mine 
own eyes, I would never have believed it." 
Sir Valentine was a little confounded at 
the unexpected appearance of his friend ; 
and knowing the circumstances in which 
he had been found, he was sensible they 
gave color to Sir Reginald's accusation he 
might find it difficult to remove. " Indeed, 
I am but little to blame, Sir Reginald," re- 
plied he ; " and I doubt not you will ac- 
knowledge it readily, when you have heard 
all I have to say to you." 

" Doubtless," observed the other, in a man- 
ner somewhat sarcastic ; " I go on a distant 
journey, placing such confidence in thy 
seeming honorableness as to entrust thee 
with the furthering of my suit to my mis- 
tress during my absence ; and I return tc 
find thee basely seeking to rob me of my 
happiness, by proffering her thine own af- 
fections ! Truly, thou art but little to 
blame !" 

" I do assure you, Sir Reginald " 

" Fie, sir !" exclaimed his companion, 
roughly. " Thou hast a rapier — methinks 
thou should st know the use of it. Leave thy 
tongue, and take to a fitter weapon." And 
so saying, he drew his own from its scab- 
bard. 

"By all that's honorable in knighthood 

"What!" exclaimed the other, fiercely 
interrupting him ; " wouldst play the cow- 
ard as well as the villain ! wouldst do me 
such foul wrong as thou hast been about, 
and then shrink from the punishment thou 
hast so justly deserved ? O' my conscience, 
I thought not so mean a wretch was not to be 
found. Draw, caitiff, without a word more, 
or I will beat thee like a dog." 

" As Heaven is my witness, I entertain 
this quarrel most reluctantly," said Sir Va- 
lentine, drawing out his rapier. " I cannot 
see that I have wronged you in any way ; 
and I am convinced you would be the first 
to say os, knew you all that hath happened." 



148 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



" To thy defence, sirrah !" replied Sir Re- 
ginald, angrily. " I am not to be cozened 
out of a proper vengeance." And at this 
he began very furiously to thrust at his 
companion, who sought only to defend him- 
self, which he did with such skill, that his 
opponent got more enraged every moment, 
and gave him all manner of ill words ; but 
still Sir Valentine kept on his defence, and 
would not so much as make a single pass 
at bis friend. This continued till Sir Re- 
ginald, pressing on with desperate haste, 
fell on his opponent's rapier with his whole | 
force. 

" Alack, what have I done !" exclaimed 
the young knight, as he beheld his faithful 
companion in arms drop bleeding to the 
ground. " Oh, I have slain the noblest 
knight that ever wielded spear, and the 
truest friend that ever was sincere to man. 
O" rny life, I meant to do you no hurt, and I 
can say with the same honesty, I have done 
you no offence. Finding he got no answer, 
he knelt beside his wounded friend, and took 
his hand, and entreated him very movingly 
he would not die at enmity with him, if he 
was as dangerously hurt as he seemed. — 
Still he received no reply, which put him 
almost in a frenzy by assuring him he had 
killed him. Finding, however, that Sir Re- 
ginald breathed, he very carefully took him 
in his arms, and placed him so that he might 
recline against the broad stem of a neigh- 
boring tree, and then leaping on his steed, 
he started off at the top of his speed to get 
the necessary assistance. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

How that foolish man, 
That reads the story of a woman's face, 
And dies believing it, is lost for ever : 
How all the good you have is but a shadow, 
1' the. morning with you, and at night behind 

you, 
Past and forgotten. How your vows are frosts 
Fast for a night, and with the next sun gone : 
How you are, being taken all together, 
A mere confusion, and so dead a chaos, 
That love cannot distinguish. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 
I washed an Etbiope, who, for recompense, 
Sully'd my name. And must I then be forced 
To walk, to live, thus black ! Must ! must ! 

Fie! 
He that can bear with " must," he cannot die. 

Marston. 

The love of the youthful Shakspeare for 
the yeoman's blooming daughter flourished 



the more, the more it was fed by her sonny 
glances, and in these, he basked as often aa 
he could find opportunity ; but, at this peri* 
od, his visits to the cottage were mostly late 
at night, when her father and the children 
were asleep in their beds. This arose from 
a cause which must here be described. He 
was now growing towards man's estate, and 
it often occurred to him, when he was in his 
own little chamber, fitted by himself with 
his own two or three books on a shelf — a 
chair for sitting — a little table for writing on 
— and a truckle bed for his lying, — that he 
ought to be doing of something for himself, 
and to save his poor parents the burthen of 
his provision. Such reflections would come 
upon him, when he had been wearing away 
the deep midnight with anxious study ; and 
so one morning, having come to a resolution, 
he dressed himself with all neatness, and 
bent his steps towards Jemmy Catchpole's, 
whom he had heard was in want of some 
one, to copy papers and parchment and such 
things, lie saw the little lawyer, after 
waiting a monstrous time in a low narrow 
chamber, whereof it was difficult to say 
whether the boards or the ceiling were in 
the dirtiest state, who, hearing of his errand, 
made him write as he dictated, at which he 
looked very intently, and though it was as 
fair a specimen of penmanship as might, be 
seen any where, he found wonderful fault 
with it. However, the end of it was, Jem- 
my Catchpole offered to employ the youth, 
and for his services give him a knowledge 
of the law for the first year or so ; and after 
that, should he have made any reasonable 
progress in his studies, he would pay him a 
handsome wage. This offer was gladly ac- 
cepted, for although he could gain no pre- 
sent profit by it, his sanguine nature saw in 
it a inn: t bountiful prospect.' 

Behold him now, in that den of a place 
just alluded to, surrounded by musty parch- 
ments and mouldering papers, with scarce 
ever any other company than the rats and 
the spiders, sitting on a tottering stool at a 
worm-eaten desk, writing from the early 
morning till late into the evening, save at 
such times as he was allowed to get his 
meals, or to go of errands for his employer. 
It was about this time that he began to take 
especial note of the humors of men, wher- 
ever he could get sight of them ; marking in 
his mind that distinctiveness in the individu- 
al, which made him differ from his fellows ; 
and observing, with quite as much minute- 
ness, the manner in which the professions 
of his acquaintances were in accordance or 
in opposition to their ways of living. Bf 
this peculiar curiousness of his, he took 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



149 



characters as a limner taketh portraits, 
having each feature so set down from the 
original, that he could carry such about 
with him wherever he went. This he had 
certain facilities of doing in his new occu- 
pation, as, finding him exceeding apt, the 
lawyer soon employed him as his assistant 
wherever he went, which brought him into 
every sort of company ; for Jemmy Catch- 
pole had every body's business on his hands, 
or, at least, he made many think so, and he 
bustled about from place to place, as if the 
world must needs stand still unless he gave 
it his help. 

Such occasions, and the observations he 
drew from them, afforded the youthful Shaks- 
peare some little amusement in the dulness 
of his present life. What books the lawyer 
had, related only to his own particular voca- 
tion. Th -j papers and parchments were the dry- 
est stuff that ever was read or written : even 
the very atmosphere of the chamber seemed 
to breathe of law ; and as for Jemmy Catch- 
pole, his talk was a mere patchwork of law 
phrases, that required considerable familiar- 
ity with legal instruments to m.ike the slight- 
est sense of. In fact, the little lawyer had 
so used himself to such a style in his wri- 
tings and readings, that it was impossible 
for him to talk, think, or write, in any other. 
The tediousness of this was sometimes al- 
most insupportable to the young poet, and he 
only made it tolerable by the occasional 
writing of some sweet ballad of his fair mis- 
tress, when he should be engrossing a sheet 
of parchment for his busy master. 

But then, after all this weary labor, how 
famously did he enjoy his midnight meetings 
with the sprightly Anne Hathaway. There 
would they stand together, under the friend- 
ly shadow of the walnut-tree before the cot- 
tage, in such loving fashion as I never can 
sufficiently describe, till the stars disappeared, 
and the sun's crimson pennon began to peep 
above the eastern hills. Nothing in imagi- 
nation can come at all nigh to the passion- 
ate earnestness of his manner at these times. 
It came to the ear of the enraptured maiden, 
in a resistless torrent of eloquence that swept 
down all denyings. There appeared a 
breathing fire in his words that made the air 
all around to glow with a delicious warmth ; 
and his looks beamed with such exceeding 
brilliance, that to the enamored damsel they 
made his beautiful clear countenance like 
unto the picture of some saint, clothed with a 
continual halo. It was not possible for the 
most scrupulous discreet creature to have 
resisted so earnest a wooer, therefore it can- 
not be considered in any way strange, that 
the fond nature of the blooming Anne should 



have acknowledged his complete influence. 
It so happened, that after passing the hours 
in such delicate pleasure as such a lover 
was likely to produce, on his taking leave of 
her, he sung the following words to a plea- 
sant tune that had long been a favorite of 
his. The song was thus styled in a copy he 
gave to her soon after : — 

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE's GOOD NIGHT. TO UTS 
SOUL'S MISTRESS. 

" Good night, sweet life ! yet, dearest, say, 

How can that night be good to me, 
That drives me from my bliss away, 

Whilst taking off mine eyes from thee ? 
Good night ! — the hours so swiftly are fleeting, 

We find no time to mark their flight ; 
And having known such joy in meeting, 

'Tis hard to say — Good night ! good night ! 
Good night, sweet life ! ere daylight beams, 

And sleep gives birth to hopes divine, 
May 1 be present in thy dreams, 

And blessed as thou shalt be in mine. 
Good night ! yet still I fondly linger 

I go, but do not leave thy sight : 
Though morning shows her rosy finger, 

I murmur still — Good night ! good night !" 

This was the song, simple though it may 
be; but his impassioned manner of singing 
it, which clothed every word with unuttera- 
ble passion, 1 cannot give. 

" I tell thee what it is, friend Will," ex- 
claimed a familiar voice from an open case- 
ment above them, so much to the astonish- 
ment of the lovers that they started from the 
affectionately closeness of their position on 
a sudden ; " if thou wilt not come a wooing 
at decent hours, or dost again wake me out 
of my sleep with the singing of love-songs, 
I'll have none of thy company. And I tell 
thee what it is, Mistress Anne, — if thou al- 
lowest of such loud kissing, thou wilt aljinn 
the whole country within a mile of thee !" 

" Heart o' me, father how you talk !" 
cried the blushing criminal. John Hatha- 
way closed the casement and returned to 
his bed, chuckling like one who had just 
succeeded in playing off some exquisite 
pleasant jest. 

About this period the youthful Shakspeare 
was ever meeting John a Combe. Althou b li 
he could scarce be get to speak to any other 
person in the town, save on business, John 
a Combe never failed to accost the young 
poet whenever they met. It was evident 
each took pleasure in the other's society; 
for although Master Combe was marvellous 
bitter in his speech upon all occasions, ha 
was ever betraying to the close observance 
of his companiof',, a kindness of nature which 



160 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



the latter could well appreciate. He sus- 
pected that beneath this covering of gall and 
wormwood the sweet honey of humanity lay 
in exhaustless heaps ; and knowing of his 
history, and his former greatness of soul, he 
was exceedingly curious to learn the secret 
cause that had made him apparently so 
changed a man. Once, when he met him, 
the usurer made him promise to call at his 
house immediately he had done his labors of 
the day, as he wished to see him on a mat- 
ter of deep importance. William Shaks- 
peare promised, and that evening, instead of 
going to his mistress, he was found seated in 
John a Combe's chamber, where one candle 
gave just sufficient light to make the 
cheerlessness of the place most conspicuous. 
The usurer sat before him, with that restless 
look and manner with which a man who has 
determined to do a thing which he likes not, 
prepares to set about it. 

" I've heard thou art playing the lover — 
is't true ?" inquired he, in his usual sharp 
voice. 

" Most undeniable," replied the young po- 
et with a smile. 

" O' my life, I did not think thou hadst 
such marvellous lack of brains," observed 
the other. " Wouldst cater for thine own 
misery ? — Wouldst build thy towering Ba- 
li u> the skies, to end in the utter confu-. 
si.jii of thy thoughts ? Have more discre- 
tion." 

" Indeed I find in it so sweet a happiness, 
J would not abandon it at any price," said 
his companion, with all the fervor of a true 
lover. 

" Is not the poison sweetened to attract 
the fly!" exclaimed the usurer more ear- 
nestly. " I tell thee thou shouldst avoid 
the temptation as thou wouldst a pestilence. 
It will destroy thee, body and soul. It will 
madden thy brain and wither thy heart, — 
make thy blood a consuming fire, and thy 
life an intolerable wretchedness !" 

" Truly I have no such fear," replied the 
youthful Shakspeare. 

" When does youth fear when there is a 
fair prospect before it !" cried John a Combe. 
" What a desperate folly it is. Point out the 
gaping precipice within its path, it will go 
madly forward. Of a surety nature might 
well wear a robe of motley, for she presi- 
deth over a goodly company of fools. I tell 
thee, boy, there is no such danger as that 
thou seemest so enamored of; and if nothing 
else will turn thee from thy destruction, I 
will unfold to thee the story of mine own 
Fearful experience of this blight upon hu- 
manity." 

William Shakspeare listened. ;, » "ilence, 



for, as hath been said, he had a strange cu- 
riousness to know what his companion had 
promised. 

" I require of thee, first of all, that thou 
declarest to none one word of the secret I 
am about to entrust to thee." The young 
poet readily made his assurance he would 
not repeat a syllable; and presently the 
usurer continued his narration in these 
words : — 

" Perchance thou has heard of one John 
a Combe, whose goodness of heart was the 
thfime of all of his acquaintance. I was 
that John a Combe. I had such store of 
love in my breast that I scattered it far and 
wide, and yet it seemed to grow the greater 
the more it was so squandered. No matter 
what evil I might see, I regarded it only as 
the weeds in a corn field, surrounded by 
such bountiful provision of good that it was 
scarce worthy the observation of any person 
of a thankful nature. My youth was cher- 
ished with such pleasing feelings. My man- 
hood flourished upon the same teeming soil. 
I sought te, sow benefits broadcast wherever 
there was place and opportunity ; and found, 
or fancied I found, the crop am, ly repay me 
for the labor. I made friends wherever I 
met faces. All men seemed to me my 
brothers ; and every woman I looked upon 
as a domestic deity deserving honorable 
worship. At last I met one who regarded 
me as an enemy. I strove to win him to 
better feelings, and failed. He essayed to 
destroy me in honest battle — I disarmed him 
and went my way unhurt. He then tried to 
rob me of my life by treachery ; but here he 
was both baffled and punished, whilst I re- 
mained as uninjured as at first. He was a 
demon — a fiend of hell, let loose on the 
earth. 

" I had met with many women seeming 
in every way worthy of my love, and show- 
ing such signs as proved I should have no 
great difficulty in the winning of their af- 
fections : but my soul was somewhat curi- 
ous in the pursuit of female excellence. It 
must needs have a phcenix. It would not 
be satisfied with what appeared good — it 
strove to procure possession of the best. I 
sought for such an object, for a long time 
unavailingly. At last in a neighboring 
town I met with one who seemed all I re- 
quired. She was of a poor family, the 
daughter of a man supporting himself and 
her by the profits of a humble trade. She 
was fair — young — of gentle manners, and 
of a winning mode.-t innocency. What 
more could be wanted ? On further ao- 
j quaintance her merits rose in greater con 
' spicuousness, and the perfect simplicity of 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



151 



ker dispositi .in won on me more and more 
•tery day. Was not this a phoenix ? — a 

{maenix that rose from the flames her bril- 
iant beauty raised in my heart. I grew 
enamored : and she with an admirable deli- 
cacy retired from my advances. I perse- 
vered, and saw in her some faint signs 1 
was making way in her esteem. (Still there 
was such sweet air of purest chastity in her 
every action, it kept me a worshipper at so 
respectful a distance, I could not believe my 
success to be in any certainty. 

" What did I do upon this. I determined 
to take every opportunity of studying her 
nature, with the hope of so moulding it to 
my ideas of womanly excellence, I should 
by possessing her, secure myself a life of 
such exceeding happiness the most blessed 
could have but little notion of. To say I 
loved her, methinks is scarce to say enough, 
yet of the mere outward show of passion 1 
afforded the world so little, none could have 
believed I had been so desperately enamored. 
It was that nice sense of delicacy in her, 
and modest shrinking from familiar praise, 
that took me captive. To win her love I 
strove with all the earnestness of manhood 
flushed with its proudest energies. But how 
to win it was the question. I would not 
purchase it by gifts, for that suited not my 
humor. I would only have it come as the 
price of her appreciation of my merit, for 
then I thought I could the better count on 
its sincerity and duration. With this fine 
fantasy of mine, I would not let her know I 
was in such good estate as I really was. I 
affected some humbleness of fortune, think- 
ing by gaining her in such guise I should 
be sure that no alloy of selfishness could 
mingle with the pure sterling of her love. 

" I took up my abode in her father's house 
to have the fullest means of completing my 
honest purpose. She seemed to grow under 
my hand like a flower of my own planting. 
She began to regard me with a softer ten- 
derness. I doubled my assiduity, and she 
gradually warmed into a graceful fondness; 
yet in all that she did or said there was so 
exquisite an artlessness, I was more charm- 
ed than had she been a thousand times more 
affectionate without such simple coloring. 
I loved more and more. At last the crown- 
ing of all my toil I gained from her the 
much longed-for confession — the treasure 
of her regard was mine and mine alone. I 
did not betray myself even then, delighted 
as I was beyond all measure ; but I resolv- 
ed the next day to leave the house, return 
in my true character as speedily as I might, 
and, before all her acquaintance, wed her 
with such honorable ceremony as worth like 
10 



hers deserved. I thought my bliss complete, 
and my gratitude to the author of it knew 
no bounds. 

" I slept in a chamber directly under hers, 
and often as I lay in my bed have 1 enjoyed 
more exquisite sweet pleasure in hearing 
her gentle footsteps pass my door, and up 
the stairs to her sweet rest — to which, in 
consequence, as she told me, of her house- 
hold labors, she was the last to retire of any 
in the house. That night thinking of my 
great happiness to come, 1 kept awake long- 
er than had been customary with me ; and 
all at once I marvelled I had not yet heard 
her light footfalls, for it was far beyond her 
usual time of coming up stairs. Another 
hour passed by and yet no sign of her com- 
ing. I began to get somewhat alarmed, as 
lovers will upon anything out of the ordi- 
nary in their mistress's behavior. At last 
when I had nigh worked myself into a fever 
with imagining of all sorts of dangers that 
might have happened to her, to my infinite 
joy I heard her softly approach my door. 
Almost at the instant I heard other footsteps 
ascending with her. In the next moment 
I distinguished a slight whispering in a 
strange voice. Then two persons together 
proceeded past my door — together they as- 
cended the stairs — together they entered her 
chamber — the door was locked — I could then 
distinctly hear above me, mingled with her 
light footfall and gentle voice, the full deep 
tones and heavy step of a man. 

" At this discovery I started up as though 
I had been bit by an adder — the bed shook 
under the fierce trembling of my limbs — my 
heart beat in my breast as a madman rushes 
against his prison bars — my veins seemed 
filled with the flame, and my brain scorch- 
ing with fire ; and a hot blighting wind ap- 
peared so to fill the place around me, I 
breathed as though every breath would be 
my last. But this was but the beginning of 
my tortures. Had I possessed the power of 
moving I would have done a deed of just 
vengeance, which should have remained a 
monument of terror unto the end of time ; 
but I was there like one chained, having no 
other senses but those of hearing and feel- 
ing. Talk of the sufferings of the damned, 
what were they to the agonies I endured. 
Lash me with scorpions — plunge me into 
everlasting fires — goad me with serpents 
stings — strain every nerve and artery with 
pullies, racks and wheels — 'tis but a mere 
ordinary aching in comparison. At last, 
nature could hold out no longer, and all sen-- 
sation left me. 

"When I recovered consciousness, tlie. 
sun was streaming in at my casement ; but 



152 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



it was no sun for me. I was no more the 
man I had been twelve hours before, than is 
a withered bud a blooming flower. A per- 
petual darkness took possession of mine 
eyes — my veins held a running poison — the 
sweet feelings of humanity had turned to a 
sourness that corroded their vessels — all my 
hopes were consumed to ashes, and scat- 
tered to the four winds ; and all my belief 
in the existence of the worthiness of hu- 
manity burst like a bubble in the air, leav- 
ing no sign to tell that such a thing had 
ever appeared. Wherever I looked I spied 
the darkness of a sepulchre — wherever I 
moved I smelt the filth of a charnel. Villainy 
was branded on every face. Craft made its 
dwelling in every habitation. I saw the 
world intent on my destruction. I declared 
war against the whole human race. 

" I took counsel with myself, and deter- 
mined before I left that hateful place to dis- 
cover one thing. I had dressed myself in 
readiness to set about the fulfilment of my 
resolution, when who should make her ap- 
pearance but the object of my late care and 
regard — my phcenix! my best among the 
excellent ! Towards me she came looking 
as simple, innocent, pure, and artless as she 
had looked from the beginning. I managed 
by a desperate effort to keep me a calmed 
countenance, though there raged so fierce 
a tempest within me as beggareth all de- 
scription. 

" She sat herself down as usual, and with 
her accustomed gentle kindness commenced 
asking concerning of my health. I calmly 
drew a chair next to hers, quietly seated 
myself as near to her as I could — quickly 
seized one of her wrists in each hand, and 
with my face close to her own, looked into 
her eyes as though I would read there the 
deepest secret of her soul. She shrunk from 
my scrutiny with every sign of consciou 
guilt. I then poured out on her the pent-up 
flood of contempt, indignation, and abhor- 
rence; and she trembled in pallid shame. 
I saw she was humbled to the dust with 
fear, and rung from her reluctant lips the 
whole history of her infamy. It was a com- 
mon case. An excess of vanity disguised 
by matchless craft, made her seek to be- 
come above her natural station. She sought 
to be the envy of her companions, by wearing 
of such ornament as they could not obtain. 
These she cared not to obtain honestly, 
txagh she employed an exhaustless stock 
of artifice to make it appear they were so 
acquired. The tempter was at hand, ready 
to take advantage of her evil-disposedness. 
A few trinkets and other pretty baubles, 
with a fair commodity of oatns and flatteries, 



completed the* bargain. The price paid, slu} 
sold herself, body and soul. Still I stopped 
not here. I insisted on the name of her com- 
panion in iniquity. After a while she gave 
it. It was mine enemy. 

" He had seen where I had stored up all 
my hopes — he had noticed my infinite pains- 
taking to make my happiness complete — he 
had watched — eagerly — delightedly watch- 
ed the progress of the enamored game I was 
playing, till I had staked every thought and 
feeling on the issue ; and then he came with 
his damnable base villainy, and so cheated 
me, I not only lost what I had staked, but 
lost myself as well. At the mention of his 
name I flung her from me like a toad : and 
as the fear-struck wretch lay prostrate be- 
fore me, I heaped on her guilty soul the 
abundant measure of my honest execrations. 
She hid her face in her hands, and writhed 
like a bruised worm ; but I left her not till 
I had exhausted every term of infamy and 
scorn I had at my will. Doubtless, though 
the next hour she went about wearing of 
the same simple, artless, innocent counte- 
nance as first attracted me ; and as token 
of her worthiness, exhibited to her envious 
companions the letters and verses of my 
writing, wherein I bestowed on her that 
estimable rare clothing with which true 
love delighteth to attire its deity : — and, I 
make no manner of question, hath since 
palmed herself off on others, as she strove 
to do with me, as the purest, kindest and 
best among the most admirable of her 
sex. 

" As for the villain that did me this in- 
tolerable wrong, I sought him in all places, 
but he managed to elude the strictness of 
my search. If there remain for me one 
glimpse of happiness in this world, it can 
only come when I shall toss his body to the 
ravens, and leave his bones a crumbling x 
monument of matchless perfidy, to whitec 
in the blast. Bowed down, as I am, with 
the weight of those memories which crush 
my humanity to the dust, my arm seems 
nerved, and all my limbs clothed with a 
giant's power, whenever I see in my mind's 
eye the arrival of my day of vengeance. I 
know it will come. Nature hath been out- 
raged beyond all previous example. The 
punishment shall be in proportion to the 
offence. The breath of life is kept within 
my miserable frame only by an unconquer- 
able desire to execute this natural decree ; 
and till that longed-for time shall come, the 
scorn, the detestation, the hatred, the con- 
tempt, the disgust, the loathing and abhor- 
rence that bubbles from my heart, will fall, 
for want of beingdiscnarged upon its piopef 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



153 



•f jfcc t, upon those who have the ill hap to 

*ome within my influence. 

" Boy !" exclaimed John a Combe, in a 
voice scarce audible from the greatness of 
his emotions, " when I think of what I might 
have become, and behold what I am, my 
heart feels as if it would shiver in my breast. 
There are many who may still remember me 
in my better days, but I doubt they knew 
the happiness I had then in myself and my 
doings. From philanthropy to usury is a 
huge step ; yet I took it at a bound. May- 
hap I am mad — I have had cause enough 
for it — but I can assert of a certainty, I am 
— most miserable." 

William Shakspeare had listened to the 
preceding narration with exceeding interest; 
but the last few words were spoken with 
such a touching earnestness, he was more 
deeply moved than ever he had been in his 
life before. He saw this was no case for 
common consolations — he therefore attempt- 
ed nothing of the sort. 

■" Never breathe to me a word of woman's 
honorableness," continued the usurer, with 
increased earnestness. " This creature that 
1 had worshipped with so pure a spirit, 
whose worthiness I exalted above all virtue, 
and whose excellence I so honored, it out- 
topped every example of goodness, not only 
did me this inhuman wrong out of her own 
infinite baseness; but as soon as I had rid, 
myself of her infamous society, she took to ' 
slandering me with the coarse, vile coloring 
©f the blackest malice — thinking, by so do- 
ing, my testimony of her shame would not 
be believed. I alone had knowledge of her 
evil doing — the fear which guilt produces 
continually haunted her — and she strove to 
save her reputation by destroying mine. 
She gave out I had sought to use her dis- 
honestly, so she would have none of me ; 
and accused me of sueh horrible behaving 
as none but the degraded, debased thing she 
had made herself, could have conceived. 
Here, then, was I by my abundant love of 
virtue, and prodigal generousness, in seek- 
ing to make others happy, stripped hopeless 
—and then daubed with the pitch of infamy 1 
I have said nought of this matter hitherto, 
believing I might escape the outstretched, 
finger, and the reviling eye, of the unjust 
world, by a strict secrecy. My pride would 
not allow of my offering one word in my 
own defence, convinced that men's minds 
have such an inclination for villainy, they 
will readily entertain it, let it come in any 
shape. No where will there be found any 
sympathy for abused confidence, for the 
man that is deceived is looked upon as a 
poor weak fool, that should have had more 



wit than to have suffered such cozening. 

" I felt convinced that every one around 
me were striving to get to a knowledge of 
my secret, that they might enjoy the plea- 
sure of thinking ill of me ; so I was before- 
hand with them — abused all and kept all 
from the slightest approach to that famili- 
arity which they desired should lead to con- 
tempt. But what a life is this I am living! 
and when I behold thy fresh young nature 
pursuing the same course which mine hath 
gone, have I not reason to fear it will come 
to a like dreadful ending ? Boy ! look at 
me, and pause in thy career. I have been 
as thou art now — a worshipper of fair ap- 
pearances. I loved the goodly garnishing 
of the bright world, and would have rushed 
against a thousand levelled spears in de- 
fence of its integrity. Thou seest me here 
decrepid in my prime, inwardly affected 
with a moral leprosy, that eateth my heart 
to the core— outwardly, one entire sore, that 
causeth nae to shrink from the world as from 
a scorching fire. I am at strife with my 
fellows — I am at war with myself — the day 
bringeth no peace for me — the night no re- 
pose. Merciful God !" exclaimed the un- 
happy usurer, in his deep frenzy, clasping 
his hands together, with a wild look of agony 
and supplication. " Is there no peace for 
the guiltless ? — Is there nought but perpet- 
ual torture for the doer of good ? Tear not 
my heart-strings with so rude a grasp ! I 
have wronged none. I have loved all. I 
have worshipped fervently each excellent 
evidence of thy perfect handiwork. Let not 
mine enemy prevail against me. He hath 
done me most intolerable injury. Pity for 
my undeserved sufferings ! Justice against 
the villainy that produced them ! Mercy I 
help ! vengeance !" 

Shouting these last words in the most 
piercing tones, John a Combe tottered for- 
ward a few steps, and before his young com- 
panion could reach the place where he was, 
fell exhausted upon the floor. 



CHAPTER XXDI. 

Is this your manly service ? 
A devil scorns to do it. 

Massinger. 
Now whether it were providence, or luck. 
Whether the keeper's or the stealer's buck. 
There we had venison. 

Bishop Corbet. 

" See that this plot of thine have a more 
profitable issue than thy preceding ones." 



154 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



a It cannot fail, my lord, it is so cunning- 
ly devised." 

*' So thou saidst of the others, yet I reaped 
no advantage of them." 

" That was owing to no fault of mine, 
believe me, but to circumstances which, as 
it was clean impossible they could be fore- 
seen of the piercingest wit, it is plain they 
could not have been prevented." 

Thus spoke two of whom the reader hath 
already some acquaintance — to wit, the li- 
centious noble and his villainous assistant ; 
and they were sitting together in a small, 
mean chamber of an obscure inn in the 
neighborhood of Charlcote — the former, as 
usual, so closely wrapped up, as if he feared 
being recognized ; and the other in finer fea- 
ther than he had ever been in before, as 
though he was intent in playing some ex- 
ceeding gallant part. 

" I marvel,. my lord, you should waste so 
much labor on so poor an object," observed 
the meaner villain. " Methinks you might 
have won a nobler prize at half the pains. 
Indeed, I have been credibly informed this 
Mabel is nothing better than a very mean 
person, — a mere foundling — mayhap, the 
chance offspring of vulgar parents — that 
hath now become a sort of humble servant 
to the good dame by whom she was disco- 
vered." 

"Dost tell me this story, fellow !" exclaim- 
ed his companion, rising from his seat with 
most haughty indignant glances. " Why, 
where hath flown thy wits,, that thou couldst 
credit so shallow a tale ? — Foundling ! o' 
my life, I would gladly give a thousand 
crowns to pick up such a foundling but 
once or twice in my life. Vulgar parent- 
age ! By this handjl have ' seen her wear 
so regal an air with her, as Elizabeth, in her 
proudest mood, never came up to. Ser- 
vant ! Hast noted her look and move, and 
speak with that unrivalled dignity she pos- 
sesseth, and talk so idly ? 'Slife, thy brains 
are addled." 

The gallant looked all humbleness. He 
knew it would be somewhat unprofitable to 
him to differ in opinion with his employer 
on such a matter ; so he made no more ado 
than to express his entire disbelief of the 
story he had been told, and avow he had ne- 
ver entertained it from the first. 

" I must say this plot seemeth to me a 
famous good one for the purpose," observed 
the other, as he was making for the door. — 
" But, mark me, if that knave of thine lay 
but his sacrilegious finger on her, I'll cut 
him to shreds !" 

" Be assured, my lord, everything shall 
be done according to your noble wishes," 



replied his associate. Soon afterwards botfc 
mounted their horses at the door, the noble 
then started off in one direction, and the 
other, accompanied by the same ill-looking 
fellow, that had dealt William Shakspeare 
so fierce a blow in the park, at Charlcote, 
took a different road. These two rode to- 
wards Sir Thomas Lucy's house in deep and 
earnest converse all the way ; the former 
ever anon breaking off his discourse by 
muttering the words " fellow," and " so my 
brains are addled!" in a manner which 
showed he had taken huge offence at those 
expressions. In another hour they were 
seated with the justice in his favorite cham- 
ber, making famous cheer of his good ale ; 
the gallant appearing to be a marvellous 
great person ; and his fellow dressed in a 
falconer's suit of green, played the^part of 
the honest, humble serving man, that his 
master, out of regard for his exceeding me- 
rit, sought to make happy. He spoke sel- 
dom, and then only to praise his good mas- 
ter, or say some respectful speech to hia 
worship the justice. However, his compa- 
nions left him but little opportunity for much 
talking, had he been so inclined ; for what 
with his master's marvellous accounts of his 
influence at court, and the many noble per- 
sons he was held in such esteem of, they 
could refuse him nothing, and Sir Thomas's 
still more incredible accounts at his familiar 
acquaintance with these notable person- 
ages, in their youth, and the famous tricks 
he and they had played together, there was 
but little room for a third party to bring in 
a word. 

We must, however, leave these worthies 
for the present, and accompany the courte- 
ous reader to another chamber, wherein the 
gentle Mabel was receiving a grave and 
somewhat severe lecture from Dame Lucy. 
The poor foundling looked pale and sad. — 
She was striving to resign herself to the 
humility of her fortunes, but there was 
something in her nature that would not be 
content. 

"I beseech you, sweet mistress, let me 
hear no more of the marriage," said she at 
last, in a manner pitiful enough to have 
moved any person. M This man I know to 
be one of those who assisted to carry me off, 
and the other his master was the mainspring 
of the whole villainy." 

" Did any ever hear of such presump- 
tion !" exclaimed the old dame, in a famous 
astonishment. " Doth not Sir Thomas de- 
clare that the gentleman hath been his good 
friend nigh upon this twenty year, and tha 
the other, his falconer, he believes to be a* 
honest a man as ever broke bread. Dost 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



165 



pretend to Know more than the justice ? I 
marvel a: thy horrible impudency !" 

11 1 cannot be mistaken, for they have 
given me but too good cause to hold them 
nrmly in my remembrance," added the poor 
foundling. 

" Here's ingratitude !" cried her ancient 
companion, seeming to be getting a little 
out of temper ! " Here's obstinacy ! Here's 
disobedience, and undutifulness to thy pro- 
per advisers. Art not ashamed to be setting 
thyself in opposition to thy betters, who have 
clothed thee, and fed thee, and given thee 
lodging, and made of thee a Christian ? — 
By my troth, I would not have believed such 
hugevbaseness was in the whole world." 

"But I have no desire for marriage, an' it 
please you. good mistress," said Mabel ; 
" methinks I am well enough as I am." 

" How dost pretend to know anything of 
the sort," answered Dame Lucy, sharply. — 
" Is not the justice the better judge ! Hath 
he not said thou art ill off, and dost dare, in 
the face of it, to say thou art well enough ? 
But I see it plain. Thou art hankering af- 
ter those fine fellows who met thee at Kenil- 
worth ; and would sooner be the leman of a 
gay gallant than the wife of an honest man. 
But I will put a stop to thy villainy straight. 
The justice hath declared thou art to marry, 
and to marry thou must speedily make up 
thy mind. I will see that thou art properly 
wedded with all convenient speest*; and, as 
earnest of my intentions, I will send thee 
the honest man who is to be thy husband. — 
Prithee, take heed thou entertain him well." 

Mabel saw her mistress leave the cham- 
ber, and sank into a seat with a mind nigh 
paralyzed with apprehension. She had sus- 
pected, for some time, some plot was hatch- 
ing by which she was to suffer, and she now 
saw its villainous shape and purpose. She 
perceived it was planned with such extreme 
subtlety, that it afforded scarce any chance 
of .escape. Her thoughts were sinking into 
a very desperate hopelessness, when the 
door opened, and there entered the chamber, 
with a half-respectful, half-familiar look, 
and in an awkward, clownish manner, the 
man that awhile since was making cheer 
with his master, and the justice. Mabel 
knew him at a glance, and, in a moment, 
sprung to her feet, eyeing him with a look 
of scorn and detestation that appeared to 
discompose him somewhat. There was 
scarce a bolder villain in existence, yet it 
was evident he felt not quite at his ease be- 
fore the flashing glances of the poor found- 
ling. He seated himself on a chair, holding 
his hat before him with his knees close toge- 
ther j and presently shifted his position, and 



then again changed it. Neither had spoke 
by word of mouth ; but the looks of Mabel 
seemed to have the searchingest language 
fnat ever was said or written, and the villain 
read it, understood it, and felt it. At last, 
he commenced speaking : — " His worship 
hath had such goodness as to " 

" Wretch !" exclaimed Mabel, interrupt- 
ing him in a deep low voice, in which utter 
contempt seemed to breathe its most humi- 
liating spirit ; 'and then advancing towards 
him two or three steps in all the haughty 
dignity of virtue, continued with an elo- 
quence of look and gesture which exceed- 
eth all powers of description, to address him 
thus : — " The spawn of the toad hath a 
name, the slough of the adder may be called 
something ; but what art thou, monster of 
baseness, for whom language hath no fit ti- 
tle. Art a man ? Manhood spits at thee ! 
Art a beast ? The most bestial thing that 
crawls, knoweth nothing of the vile office 
thou hast undertaken. Avaunt, thou out- 
rage upon nature ! Away, thou shame on 
humanity ! Go, hide thee, if hiding thou 
canst find ; for if thou couldst crawl within 
the deepest bowels of the earth, the earth 
would sicken at thy touch, and cast thee up 
— the sea would raise her gorge at thee — 
the mountains heave at thy approach — and 
all the elements of matter shrink from thy 
neighborhood, as from an abomination too 
gross to be endured '." 

The man winced under this address, as if 
every word of it had been a goad that touch- 
ed him to the quick. His dark scowling 
eyes glanced restlessly about, he changed 
color several times, and looked in that pe- 
culiar expression of indecision that betokea- 
eth a state of mind in which a person know- 
eth not what to do with himself, though he 
would be glad to be anywhere but where he 
was. 

''• What desperate demon put thee on this 
mischief," continued Mabel in the same force 
of language and manner. " Canst seek such 
detestable employment and live ? Hast no 
sense of shame ? No fear of punishment ? 
No dread of an hereafter ? Look at what 
thou art about to do. Hold it before thy 
gaze unshrinkingly, if thou canst. Doth 
not thy soul shrink in disgust at entering 
upon such loathsomeness ? Man ! If thou 
hast not parted with every tittle of the de- 
cent pride of nature, spurn the outrageous 
infamy thou wouldst thrust thyself into. — 
Get thee to thy employer, and tell him thou 
dost abhor such inhuman villainy, or thou 
wilt be hunted through the world like some 
foul fruit of monstrous practices, all nature 
riseth to destroy from very shame." 



1M 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



The viLain evidently trembled, and the 
big drops starting on his wrinkled forehead, 
showed how deeply he was moved. 

" Rememberest thou, thou hadst once a 
mother ?" added the foundling in a deeper 
and more subduing tone : " think of her, 
friendless as I am. How wouldst thou re- 
gard the man who suffered himself to be- 
come the tool of a villainous base traitor, to 
secure his doing her such foul wrong as 
honesty stands aghast to contemplate? — 
Wouldst not be ready to tear his heart from 
his breast, and trample it in the nighest 
dunghill, to rot with its kindred filth ? Canst 
behold this vileness in another and not see 
it in thyself? Thou art the tool for com- 
passing this mischief, and I the guiltless ob- 
ject at which 'tis aimed. If I have done 
thee any wrong I will do all possible repara- 
tion. If I have given thee any offence, I 
will endure any corresponding punishment. 
I charge thee say in what I have injured thee, 
that thou shouldst pursue me with so unna- 
tural a hatred !" 

" Nay, sweet mistress, I have never re- 
ceived ill at your hands," replied the man 
with a faltering voice, and a manner tho- 
roughly ashamed. " And if I in any way 
assist in doing of you an injury, may I be 
hanged on the highest gibbet that can be 
found." So saying, he hurried out of the 
chamber so completely chap-fallen as no 
villain had ever been before. He immedi- 
ately sought his master, and found him alone. 

" Ask of me to stab, to poison, or to rob, 
and I care not to refuse," exclaimed he. 
" But if I am caught within looking or talk- 
ing distance of that wench again, I will eat 
myself by handfuls. 'Slight I her words 
and glances have so scourged me, I would 
sooner have took the whipping-post the long- 
est day o' the year, than have endured a 
tithe of* such punishment." 

" Why, thou ape, thou beast, thou fool, 
thou pestilent knave and coward I what dost 
mean by this ?" cried his master in as great 
rage as astonishment. " Wouldst spoil the 
goodliest plot that ever was devised ; and 
mar the making of our fortunes when we 
are sure of success ?" 

" Truly, I care not if I do," said the man 
doggedly. " But I will be no mean for the 
doing of her any mischief. I will assist 
thee in any decent villainy, but if ever I 
meddle with her again, I'll forswear living." 

It was in vain that the other tried by 
promises and then by threats to turn his 
companion's resolution ; and the result was, 
Mabel was left at peace till some more wil- 
ling agent could be found. 

fn the meanwhile the passion of the youth- 



ful Shakspeare for the yeoman's blooming 
daughter continued to develope itself with 
increased fervor, despite of the usurer's 
warning ; and John Hathaway with his own 
notions of the matter, at last on one of his 
usual evening visits, bluntly asked him how 
he should like his fair mistress for a wife ; 
whereupon, as might be expected, the young 
lover answered nought in this world would 
make him so happy. Then the father grave- 
ly inquired into his means of supporting a 
wife, at which his companion looked the 
gravest of the two, and acknowledged that 
all he had was the wage he received from 
Master Catchpole, which scarce sufficed to 
keep him in shoe leather ; and that the yeo- 
man looked monstrous concerned, and be- 
gan to preach a notable fine homily on the 
necessity of marrying with sufficient provi- 
sion, to all of which the young poet had not 
a word of reply ; but sat in a very desperate 
unhappiness, fully convinced every hope of 
gaining his dear mistress was at an end. 

" I tell thee what it is, friend Will," said 
John Hathaway, after regarding his compan- 
ion's doleful visage till he found he could no 
longer disguise the sly pleasure he was him- 
self enjoying all the time, " Keep thy heart 
above thy girdle, I prithee. I and thy hon- 
est father settled the matter yester-eve, over 
a full tankard. Thou shalt be married at 
Lammas, and shalt lack nothing for thy par- 
ticular comfort I can procure thee. A fair 
good night to thee, son Will." Before the 
delighted lover could recover from his ex- 
ceeding astonishment at this welcome intel- 
ligence, his intended father-in-law, mayhap 
the most pleased of the two, had made his 
way to his bed-chamber. 

Every hour of the intervening time went 
joyfully with the youthful Shakspeare. — 
Even the musty parchments and dull law 
writings took a pleasant countenance at this 
period, and he labored so diligently and so 
much to the satisfaction of his master, with 
whom he had become in famous esteem for 
his cleverness at his duties, that he hearing 
of his coming marriage, promised him 
week's holidays previous to his wedding-day 
that he might the better employ himself in 
the necessary preparations, and a week after 
his nuptials, that he might have sufficient 
space to enjoy himself to his heart's content. 

But the little lawyer was a marvellous 
shrewd person. He suspected did he not 
get rid of his clerk at such a time, he would 
be marring of everything he put his hand 
to by thinking of other matters. 

The week previous to the wedding had 
arrived, and the young lover was in such 
state of happy expectation as lovers at such 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



157 



ft time only can. know. His cheerful, free 
humor had made him an especial favorite of 
the young men of his own age, who could 
claim with him any sort of acquaintance, 
and now more than ever his heart was open 
to every appearance of sociality. His ap- 
proaching marriage became known over the 
town, and this led many to ask him to par- 
take with him a friendly draught, that they 
might wish him all manner of happiness, the 
which he could not without an unbecoming 
discourtesy refuse, consequently, when he 
was not in company with his dear mistress, 
of whom by reason of her being in almost 
constant occupation preparing for this great 
festival of her life, he saw only for a brief 
space each day, he was engaged in social 
revelling with his friends. Perchance some 
of these, being of an idle turn, and of some- 
what unbridled inclinations, were not the 
very properest companions he should have 
chosen, but he knew of nought to their par- 
ticular disadvantages, and their exceeding 
friendliness towards him, in his present hu- 
mor, made him readily embrace any frolic 
they wished *him to share in. They pro- 
posed that to make the wedding feast the 
more perfect, they should go together over 
night and kill a deer, and as this was re- 
garded by persons of his condition at that 
period as a mere customary youthful frolic, 
he readily promised to be of the party. 

It chanced to happen, that afternoon, as 
they were standing together at the inn door, 
who should come by but Oliver Dumps, the 
constable, having as his prisoners no less 
important personages than Sir Nathaniel, 
the curate, and Stripes, the scholmaster. — 
The cause of which was, that these two had 
become such inveterate offenders in the way 
of drunkenness, and Oliver was so desirous 
of showing himself the Queen's proper offi- 
cer, that he had at last come to the deter- 
mination of putting them both in the stocks ; 
and to the stocks, which lay convenient to 
the inn, in the market-place, the constable 
was bringing them, making the dolefulest 
lamentation, bytho way, of the horrid wick- 
edness of the world that had forced him to 
so exercise his authority. It was amusing 
enough of all conscience to the throng of 
children and idlers that so novel an incident 
had brought together, to note the manner in 
which the two offenders bore themselves as 
they were carried along. The schoolmaster 
hung his head as if he felt a little ashamed 
of his situation, but the curate assumed an 
air of dignity so monstrously ridiculous, none 
could look on it in any seriousness. Pre- 
sently the board was opened, their legs 
placed in the holes, and having had it fas- 



tened down on them with a strong padlock, 
they were left to their own reflections. 

Sir Nathaniel, seated on a low stool, with 
his fat legs stuck fast in the board, seemed 
not at all comfortable ; and Stripes, hanging 
of his head, with his thin shanks dangling 
through the holes, looked amazing sheepish. 
The curate glanced feelingly at the school- 
master, and the schoolmaster turned a simi- 
lar look of suffering at the curate. 

" Hard lying, — ey, Ticklebreech ?" ex- 
claimed Sir Nathaniel, in a low voice. 

" Monstrous !" replied Stripes, in as sad a 
tone as ever was heard. It was evident the 
curate was not well pleased with his seat, 
for he turned on one side and then on the 
other, and then supported himself with his 
hands behind, with a visage as woeful as 
drunken man ever wore. 

" I would these pestilent stocks had been 
a thousand miles away, and be hanged to 
'em !" cried the uncomfortable Sir Nathani- 
el, with an earnestness that bespoke his sin- 
cerity. 

" I'faith so would I, an' it please your 
reverence !" answered the pedagogue, with 
more than ordinary fervor. As the minutes 
passed, neither appeared to grow a whit 
more satisfied with his situation. The crim- 
son face of the one every moment took a 
deeper hue, and the lantnorn jaws of the 
other assumed an increasing elongation. 

" Too much drinkin's a villainous bad 
thing, Pedagogue !" said the curate, with a 
notable emphasis that showed how convinc- 
ed he was of the truth of his assertion. 

" Horrible !" replied Stripes, evidently in a 
like assurance. 

" 1 marvel a man should be so huge an 
ass as to be ever addling his brains with 
abominable filthy liquor," continued his 
companion. " For mine own part, I would 
such vile stuff was put clean out o' the land. 
I hate it. But 'tis all the fault of those base, 
thorough-going rogues of tapsters, who se- 
duce one's innocence ; and then, when thp 
draughts have become in any number 
straightway take to asking for paymert 
What infamous villainy!" 

" Marvellous, o' my word !" exclaimed tb< 
other. 

" Well, an' they catch me drinking anj 
more of their abominable potations, I'll turt 
hermit," observed Sir Nathaniel, in a greatei 
earnestness. " 'Sprecious ! there is no ho- 
nesty in swallowing anything of the sort. — 
Ale is against all Christian doctrine, and 
wine is scarce fit for a Jew. Not a drop 
of such deceitful base wash shall pollute my 
throat. Wilt taste any more on't, Tickle- 
breech ?" 



Ifi8 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



" Never ! an' it please your reverence," 
cried the schoolmaster monstrous determin- 
edly. The whole of this little scene of re- 
formation had been heard and witnessed by 
the youthful Shakspeare and his companions, 
to theirexceeding amusement ; and soon af- 
*er, one of the former came before the topers, 
carrying of an ale-can frothing over at the 
top. 

" Thinking thou cannot help being terri- 
athirst sitting there so uncomfortably, I have 
brought thee a draught of right good liquor," 
said he, very carefully laying down the can 
within a short distance of them, and then re- 
turning to his companions. 

" I thank thee, boy — I thank thee ; my 
tongue cleaveth to my month, I am so dry," 
replied the curate, eagerly stretching out his 
arm towards the vessel ; but it was beyond 
his reach : thereupon he earnestly moved his 
companion to bring it him ; and Stripes, ma- 
nifestly no les« eagerly, stretched out his 
whole length of limb, but could only get with- 
in an inch of it. 

"Now, Pedagogus !" cried his companion 
pushing the other with all his might over 
the stocks, " prithee, send thy hand a little 
farther. Stretch away, Ticklebreech ! Thou 
hast it within a hair's breadth ; now, give it 
a fair grasp and 'tis ours." But it was all 
labor in vain ; ' Stripes stretched, and Sir 
Nathaniel pushed with equal desire ; but all 
their united exertions only succeeded in 
bringing the schoolmaster's fingers to touch 
the tantalizing ale-can ; and, at last, Stripes 
roared out he could endure no more squeez- 
ing, for his body was pressed against the 
edge of the board with a force that threat- 
ened to cut him in two. Whilst both were 
lamenting the hardness of their fortune, up 
came another of the young men, and pushed 
the can a little nearer and went his way.-— 
The schoolmaster in a moment had it in his 
careful hold, but the other greedily snatched 
it out of his hand, claiming the first draught 
as A}0 to his superiority, and quickly raised 
it to his lips. He had not swallowed more 
than a mouthful or two when he dashed 
down the can, spluttered out what he was 
swallowing, and made one of the most dis- 
satisfied countenances ever seen, to the ex- 
ceeding astonishment of his companion and 
the infinite delight of the spectators. The 
can, instead of " right good liquor," con- 
tained nothing better than a mess of soap- 
suds, fetched by the merry knave who of- 
fered it, from a tub in which the maids of 
the inn were washing the household linen. 

Whilst the enraged curate was making of 
all manner of strange, forbidding grimaces, 
and abusing those whc had put so unpalata- 



ble a jest on him in most outrageous chol- 
eric terms, there rode up to him a very se- 
date old gentleman, with others in his com- 
pany, who regarded Sir Nathaniel and his 
companion with a singular severe scrutiny. 
In consequence of continued complaints made 
by divers of the worthy burgesses of Strat- 
ford, concerning of the unsemely behavior 
of their parson and schoolmaster, the bishop 
of that diocese had determined to look into 
their conduct, and had arrived in the town, 
with his retinue, where, after inquiring for 
the curate, he had been directed to the stocks. 
The result of this visit was both Sir Na- 
thaniel and Stripes were -a very short time 
after dismissed from their offices, and driven 
out of the place they had so long disgraced 
by their presence. 

The moon was shining clearly in the starry 
sky, when William Shakspeare, armed with 
John Hathaway's gun, and accompanied 
by three or four of his associates, to 
help to carry the game, crept cautiously 
through the shrubberies that skirted the 
park, where he knew deer in plenty were 
to be found. Hitherto all his shooting had 
been directed against small birds and coneys, 
but now he looked for nobler spoil. Having 
made a long circuit to avoid being noticed, 
he came to a grove of thick trees — his com- 
panions keeping a little behind him — where, 
after he had advanced stealthily along for 
about a hundred yards, he beheld a goodly 
company of fallow deer,, some lying, some 
standing, and most of them cropping the 
herbage at the edge of the grove, where the 
open pasture sweeps up to the trees. Tak- 
ing the wind in his face, the young deer- 
stealer crept from tree to tree, pausing 
behind each to mark if the game was dis- 
turbed, then proceeding noiselessly in the 
same direction. He never remembered hav- 
ing felt such excitement — he could scarce 
breathe, he was so moved. He had singled 
out the tallest buck of the herd, that stood 
like a sentinel, a little nigher to him than 
the rest, seeming to sniff the air, and stamp- 
ing with his foot as if he suspected some 
danger, and knew not whence it was com- 
ing. William Shakspeare crouched behind 
the trunk of a neighboring tree, as still as a 
stone, afraid that the very beating of his 
heart would betray him. His companions 
laid themselves down in the grass as soon 
as they caught sight of the deer. He peeped 
from behind his hiding place, and beheld the 
buck quietly cropping the herbage with his 
back towards him. He then looked at his 
gun, and saw everything was as it should 
be. His great anxiety now was to reach an 
old decayed stump — the ruin of what had 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



159 



OUee been the finest of the whole grove — 
which lay between him and his game. He 
issued from his hiding place as if his life 
depended on the quietness of his footsteps, 
and to his wondrous satisfaction succeeded 
in gaining the desired place without being 
discovered. Yet it was manifest the buck 
was in some way alarmed, for the young 
deer stealer had scarce concealed himself 
when he turned sharply round, looking now 
in this direction and now in that, and stamp- 
ing with more violence than before. The 
stump was completely open from the direc- 
tion in which the youthful Shakspeare ap- 
proached it ; and inside were seats all round, 
for it was so large it would accommodate 
many ; just under the bench a hole had been 
gnawed or broken away, and to this he cau- 
tiously raised his head as he lay his full 
length on the ground ; then lifted he the 
barrel of his gun, and as the deer was glan- 
cing suspiciously in the direction of his 
GOBcealment, he took a fair aim at his open 
breast and fired. The whole herd disap- 
peared in a moment. 

"Bravo, Will!" cried one of his compan- 
ions, hastily running up to the spot, " thou 
has killed the delicatest bit of venison I have 
seen this many a day." 

Sure enough, the buck lay at a little dis- 
tance from where he stood awhile since, 
shot through the heart ; overjoyed at their 
success, they bound his four legs together, 
intending to carry him away on a long thick 
staff they had brought with them. 

" Run ! Will, run ! Here be the keep- 
ers !" all at once shouted another of them ; 
and on the instant, as if they had wings to 
their legs, every one ran in different direc- 
tions. The young Shakspeare caught up 
his gun to follow their example, without loss 
of time, but he found himself in the grasp of 
two stout fellows, with whom he soon saw 
it was useless struggling. These were the 
two sons of Sampson, the gamekeeper, who 
with their father, had been watching from 
behind the treds the whole scene ; and not 
caring to pursue the others, they pounced 
upon the unlucky deer-stealer in the very 
act of committing his offence. Sampson 
carried the slain deer and the gun, and his 
eons bore their prisoner to the lodge at 
Daisy Hill. They abused him somewhat at 
first, but he managed to gain on their good 
will as they proceeded ; and when they arri- 
ved at the place where they intended confin- 
ing him till they could take him before the 
justice at a proper hour in the morning, the 
father ordered a tankard of ale to refresh 
himself withal. 

Who should bring it in but his fair ac- 



quaintance, Kate, the gamekeeper's pretty 
neice, whom he had met many times since 
he first had sight of her when she waited on 
him at Sir Thomas Lucy's. She was fa- 
mously surprised I doubt not, at beholding 
him there, and more so when she learned 
what occasion brought him ; but she had the 
wit not so much as to recognize him before 
her uncle and cousins. As for the culprit, 
as he believed his punishment would be but 
trifling, the offence was generally considered 
so slight, he took the matter very pleasantly, 
and so amused his captors by his merry 
jests and his excellent famous singing, that 
they ordered j-ug after jug of ale, and sung 
their songs and made their jests, and swore 
he was the drollest knave they ever came 
anigh. Each of these men drank without 
stint, and Kate seemed to take care they 
should have as much as they could fancy; 
but their prisoner sipped sparingly, and 
the result was, in two or three hours after 
his capture, Sampson and his two sons were 
snoring in their chairs, and their prisoner 
was conveyed out of the chamber by his 
kind confederate. 

I doubt though the would have shown 
him any such good service had she known 
he was to be married that very day, for she 
gave him no lack of signs she was more than 
ordinary fond of him. What passed between 
them the few minutes she detained him in 
the kitchen, hath never been correctly ascer- 
tained, therefore I cannot describe it to the 
courteous reader ; but at the last moment 
of it she helped him to put the slain deer, 
there lying, to hang by his gun, over his 
shoulder'; then she opened the door for him 
— and then he made the best of his way 
homewards. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

Your master is to be married to-day ? 
Else all this rosemary is lost. 

Middleton. 
Come strew apace. Lord ! shall I never live 
To walke to church on flowers ? O' tis fine 
To see a bride trip it to church so lightly, 
As if her new choppines would scorn to brush 
A silly flower. 

Barry. 

" O' my Christian conscience, the mon- 
strousness of this world passeth belief!" 
exclaimed Oliver Dumps, in his miseraDieBt 
manner, as he flung himself into a seat in 
the chimney corner of the widow Pippin'i 
comfortable kitchen — a place he seemed 



166 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



more partial to than any other in all Strat- ' 
ford. 

" Why, what's i' the wind now, master 
constable ?" inquired the laughing widow, 
as she brought her visitor his customary 
tankard, dressed more gaily than she had 
been seen for many years. 

The melancholy Dumps looked up to her 
jolly features and sighed heavily ; took a 
draught of the tankard and sighed again. 
'Tis a villainous world, that's the truth on't," 
said he shaking his head very woefully. 

" Villainous fiddlestick !" replied his 
merry companion. " By my fackings, the 
world be a right pleasant world, and is as 
full of delectable jests as world can be." 

" Only think of young Will Shakspeare 
taking to deer stealing," observed the con- 
stable, gravely. 

'*Who ? Will Shakspeare!" cried the 
widow, with a look of exceeding astonish- 
ment. 

" TaKen oy tne keepers in the very act," 
replied Oliver Dumps. " Conveyed by them 
to the lodge at Daisy Hill, for the night. 
Made his escape in a most unaccountable 
manner, carrying off the deer he had slain, 
and the gun he had done it with. Sir 
Thomas Lucy had issued a warrant for his 
apprehension, I have it to execute on him 
without delay ; and hearing he is at John 
Hathaway 's cottage, about to be married, 
am going there to carry him before his 
worship " 

" Tilly vally ! thou art jesting, master 
constable," exclaimed the other. " Will 
Shakspeare is not like to do anything of the 
sort, I will be bound for it." 

The queen's proper officer looked into his 
pouch, took out a folded piece of paper, and 
gave into her hands. 

" That's the warrant," said he. 

" An honest neighbor, that is now in my 
parlor, shall read it to me, seeing I cannot 
read a word of it myself," answered the 
widow Pippins ; " and as I am going to 
John Hathaway's as soon as I have got on 
my hat and muffler, if thou wilt wait a brief 
while, we will walk together." The con- 
stable promised to wait any reasonable time, 
for in truth he was well pleased to have her 
company, he, as many shrewdly imagined, 
having long been seeking to be her sixth 
hueband ; and thereupon the widow went to 
get the warrant explained to her. 

A short time before this took place, a pro- 
cession moved from the yeoman's cottage, 
in the direction of the church which, me- 
thinks, deserveth here to be set down. First 
rode an old churl, blowing of such a peal on 
hie bagpipes as if he was determined to 



expend his wind as quickly as he could, his 
long pipes and his cap decked with rosemary 
— then followed a merry company of lusty 
lads and bold bachelors of the neighborhood, 
two and two, in their holiday jerkins, every 
one clean trussed, with a blue buckram 
bride lace upon a branch of rosemary, upon 
his left arm, on horses of all sorts and col- 
ors ; William Shakspeare, the bridegroom, 
riding at their head in a new suit of frolic 
green, gaily decked with ribbons, with a 
branch of rosemary at his cap, and a true 
love posey at his breast ; and on each side 
rode a bridesman, in tawney worsted jackets, 
straw hats on their heads with a steeple 
crown, and harvest gloves on their hands, 
similarly appointed with ribbons, rosemary, 
and posies. All the way he went, the bride- 
groom pulled off his cap courteously to the 
spectators, who, seeing so gallant a youth, 
could not help loudly greeting him with their 
good wishes. 

Then came a company of morris-dancers 
on foot, jingling it very prettily, with a most 
moving accompaniment of pipe and tabor. 
After them, six fair maidens in fair white 
court-pies and orange tawney kirtles, gar- 
landed with wreaths of wheat, finely gilded, 
on their heads, and casting of flowers, by 
handfuls, out of small wicker baskets, gaily 
decked for the occasion. Then came the 
two bridemaids, most daintily tired, carrying 
before them each a large spice cake, fol- 
lowed by the bride's brother, a fair boy, 
carrying himself very bravely, choicely ap- 
parelled, bearing the parcel-gilt bride-cup, 
full of sweet ippocras, with a goodly branch 
of rosemary gilded and hung about with 
ribbons of all colors streaming in the wind ; 
next came Anne Hathaway, the blushing 
blooming bride — her apparelling of appro- 
priate whiteness, rarely garnished with rib- 
bons and flowers, her hair curiously combed 
and plaited, and crowned with a garland of 
white roses — answering very gracefully the 
hearty salutations of her neighbors. On 
each side of her walked a fair boy, with 
bride laces and rosemary tied about his 
silken sleeves. After these, ' several musi- 
cians, with flutes, sackbuts, and other deli- 
cate instruments, made excellent music. 
Then rode the father of the bride, between 
the father and mother of the bridegroom, in 
their holiday garments, with no lack of 
proper garnishing ; and, lastly, came the 
friends invited to the bride-ale, also wearing 
of their best suits, decorated with bride laces 
and DOsemary. 

In this order they reached the church at 
a slow pace, where the priest soon did hia 
office for them ; the bride-cup was then 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



161 



emptied by the company to the health and 
happiness of the new-married folks ; and 
they returned in much the same fashion as 
they went, save that the bride rode on a pil- 
lion behind the bridegroom. John Hatha- 
way's dwelling would scarce hold the guests; 
but they managed to accommodate them- 
selves pretty well, for evtry room was thrown 
open, rilled with a most bountiful provision 
of things for convenience and honest cheer, 
beside which there lay the orchard, the pad- 
dock, and the garden, for any that chose out 
of door pastime. The revels that followed 
exceed description — all sorts of games were 
going on in every direction — here a blind 
harper singing of ballads to a well-pleased 
audience, of all ages — there sundry young 
people, sitting in a circle with one in the 
midst, playing at hunt the slipper — another 
set at barley break — a third at a dance — the 
old, the young, the middle-aged, maidens 
and bachelors, husbands, wives, widows, 
and widowers, striving all they could to enjoy 
the pleasant humor of the hour. 

Among the company were many of the 
courteous reader's old acquaintances ; for 
in the principal chamber were Master Al- 
derman Malmsey, and his neighbor Master 
Alderman Dowlas, like marvellous proper 
husbands as they were, attending on their 
still comely good-humored wives — there was 
the widow Pippins, with a famous laughing 
countenance, that seemed to savor of a jest 
— there was honest John Shakspeare and 
his matronly sweet wife, looking such satis- 
faction as 'tis impossible to describe — there 
was the manly yeoman, going about with 
his sly pleasantry, more manifest than ever, 
as he looked to see all were enjoying them- 
selves to their heart's content — there was 
the blooming bride, and there the gallant 
bridegroom, in exquisite content with them- 
selves and the whole world ; and with these 
were also a many others, whose names I 
have forgotten. Still one more requireth 
my notice, and he was no other than Oliver 
Dumps, who sat in a corner, looking mon- 
strous miserable, though each of the prettiest 
women was ever coming up to him with all 
manner of d 'licacies, pressing him to partake 
of them, and smiling on him as she smiled 
on no one else in the room. But the more 
good cheer he made the more miserable he 
looked. In fact he was not at all at his 
ease. He wished to prove himself the 
queen's proper officer, without favor of any 
person, and yet he liked not interrupting the 
mirth of so bountiful a company. 

It appeared as if there was some conspi- 
racy among the women — doubtless set on 
by the merry widow who s«emed very busy 



amongst them, whispering, laughing, and 
pointing to the constable — for they would 
not allow him to remain by himself a mo- 
ment, and kept insisting so winningly on his 
drinking the delicious draughts they brought, 
that he found he could do nothing, save, with 
a pitiful sighing, the performing of their 
requests. At last, with a sudden great effort, 
he broke from a circle of them and gravely 
walked up to the bridegroom. To the mar- 
vel of the greater number of the guests, he 
claimed William Shakspeare as his prisoner, 
and commanded him to accompany him on 
the instant to his worship the justice. 

" Eh ! what dost say ?" exclaimed John 
Hathaway, advancing hurriedly, with divers 
others, there present, to know the meaning 
of such strange behavior. 

" Deer stealing !" hiccuped the constable, 
evidently with his senses somewhat confused 
by the many draughts of strong wine he had 
been forced to swallow, yet holding himself 
up with what he considered to be the true 
dignity of the queen's proper officer. 

" Nay, it cannot be, worthy Master 
Dumps," said Mistress Malmsey, coaxingly, 
on one side of him. 

" 'Tis a mistake, depend on't, sweet sir," 
added Mistress Dowlas, in an equally insin- 
uating manner. 

"Don't believe any thing of the sort, 
good Oliver," said one of the buxom bride- 
maids, pulling him affectionately by the arm. 

" 'Tis impossible so sensible a person as 
you are can give ear to so incredible a story," 
said another, taking a like pretty liberty with 
his other elbow. Oliver Dumps heard all 
these seducing expressions, and glanced from 
one to the other of the bewitching aspects 
of the speakers, with a monstrous struggling 
in his breast, and then with a becoming 
gravity, as he thought, took a paper from his 
pouch. 

" Here's the warrant," answered he. John 
Hathaway received the paper from him, un- 
folded it, and commenced, in an exceeding 
droll manner, reading a ballad there printed, 
which was famous popular at the time, be- 
ginning — 

" Alas, my love ! you do me wrong, 

To cast me off discourteously ; 
And I have loved you so long, 
Delighting in your company. 

Greensleeves was all my joy, 
Greensleeves was my delight, 
Greensleeves was my hart of gold, 
And who but Lady Greensleeves V 

Oliver Dumps looked quite confounded, 
for he saw the jest that the merry widow 
had played upon him. The laughing %ad 



162 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



joking of those around him he took as pleas- 
antly as ht could, which in sooth was rather 
of a miserable sort — for he liked not confess- 
ing how he had been tricked ; and the end 
of it was, the queen's proper officer allowed 
himself to join in the festivity of the day 
as regardless of warrants and justices, as 
though he intended to play the constable no 
more. However, the affair of the deer steal- 
ing went not off so quietly. Sir Thomas 
Lucy when he heard of it was in a terrible 
rage, and when he found the offender was 
not brought before him, he waxed more 
wroth than before. Other warrants were 
issued, and other constables employed, and 
the next morning the young deer-stealer 
was dragged into the justice-room, followed 
by such of his friends who had gained know- 
ledge of his capture. The news, however, 
soon spread, and occasioned a notable com- 
motion. 

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of 
Jemmy Catchpole when he beheld his clerk 
brought before him in custody on such a 
charge ; but being a shrewd man he did not 
so much as recognize him. The justice 
entered into the charge with much the same 
formalities as had been exhibited by him and 
his attendants on a previous occasion — 
abusing the prisoner with great bitterness, 
and allowing of none to say a word in his 
defence. The evidence of the keepers proved 
the offence beyond all contradiction, and 
when Sir Thomas demanded of the offender 
to give up the names of all those who were 
participating with him in the offence, and 
the latter would not tell the name of so 
much as one person, the, justice broke out in 
such a passion, there never was the like. 
This the prisoner endured with a composure 
which exasperated the other the more, as it 
seemed so like holding him in contempt, and 
setting his authority at nought. He threat- 
ened him with the pillory, the whipping-post, 
and even the gibbet, but still William Shaks- 
peare was not to be got to betray his com- 
panions. He smiled at the threats, and, 
with a fearless aspect, confessed he alone 
had committed the offence, and that he was 
ready to receive the punishment. 

The constables, keepers, and serving-men, 
looked awe-struck at what they considered 
to be the prisoner's horrible impudency, in 
so behaving before so great a man as his 
worship ; and the poor justice seemed scarce 
in his right senses, he spoke so fast, and in 
so tearing a passion — at last, swearing it 
was a pity he could not hang so abominable 
a villain, he got frsm the little lawyer the 
fullest punishment, provided by the statute 
of Elizabeth for such offences, which was 



the infliction of a fine, treble the value of 
the venison, an imprisonment for three 
months in the county gaol, and security for 
good behavior, for seven years ; to the whicli 
he presently sentenced the offender. The 
youthful Shakspeare cared only for the im- 
prisoning part of his sentence, as he felt it 
hard to be separated from his wife, and he 
scarce married to her ; but he could not 
allow himself to say anything in mitigation 
of punishment, although his father and 
father-in-law did so for him ; and the lattei 
offered to pay the fine, and the two aldermen, 
his father's old friends, came forward as his 
security : nevertheless, his worship, so far 
from according with what was required, 
abused the parties heartily for saying ought 
of the matter, and bade them out of his door 
straight, or they should all to prison to- 
gether. 

There were few presons who heard of the 
sentence, but were famously indignant a 
mere youthful frolick should meet with such 
heavy punishment, and many of the prison- 
er's companions swore he should never to 
prison if they could prevent it. Never had 
there been such a ferment in Stratford be- 
fore. All abused Sir Thomas Lucy for his 
unwarrantable behavior, and unreasonable 
severity, and both men and women took it as 
monstrous so young a couple should be thrust 
asunder for so trifling a cause. For all this, 
the youthful Shakspeare, gyved like a felon, 
and guarded by two constables, was sent off 
to Warwick jail. No one seemed in any 
way surprised when intelligence was bruit- 
ed abroad that they had scarce got a mile 
from Charlcote, when the constables were 
set upon and soundly cudgelled, and the 
prisoner carried off in triumph, by sundry 
unknown persons with blackened faces. 
Certes, such was the case. The young 
husband had been rescued by divers of his 
companions, relieved of his fetters, and 
brought back to his distressed wife. 

It is not to be expected that a young man 
of any spirit would sit down and tamely 
suffer the insults that had been heaped upon 
him by this shallow-pated justice. William 
Shakspeare had committed the offence it is 
true. He never denied it, and was ready to 
endure any fitting punishment; but the 
abuse and the gyves were the gratuitous 
insolence of power, desirous of insulting the 
weak ; and, smarting under a sense of 
wrong, the young poet penned a bitter ballad 
against the old knight, and a mad-cap com- 
panion fixed it on the justice's park gates 
Sir Thomas was one of the first that spiec. 
it ; and the excessive rage it put him into, 
was as ludicrous a thing as can be con* 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



163 



Mived. He grew pale and red in a breath 
—stormed till he was hoarse, and called 
about him his little army of constables, 
game-keepers, and serving-men, questioned 
them as to who had dared to commit so un- 
paralleled an indignity, and abused the hor- 
ror-struck varlets all round because none 
could give him the slightest information on 
the subject. This ballad which among other 
offensive things, bore a burthen to it with a 
play upon his name, by no means the deli- 
catest piece of jesting in the world, coming 
so quickly after the drubbing of his officers, 
to one of so tender a skin in such matters, 
seemed like enough to throw him into a 
fever. 

His dignity, however, was fated to get 
still harder rubs. He issued warrant after 
warrant for the apprehension of the escaped 
deer-stealer, in a perfect phrenzy of passion 
to hear he was still at large ; and sent con- 
stables with them in all directions, with strict 
orders to carry him to prison dead or alive ; 
but flung himself into such desperate rages 
when he heard the fruitlessness of their 
travail, that the poor constables cared not to 
go near him. Oliver Dumps had received 
a significant hint from the merry widow, 
that if ever he laid a hand on Will Shaks- 
peare she would have none of him for a sixth 
husband, therefore, it cannot be in any way 
strange he never could find the escaped 
prisoner searched he ever so. As for the 
other constables, one had incautiously made 
know his errand, and boasted v at the black- 
smith's that he would find Will Shakspeare 
before the day was over ; and about an hour 
afterwards the unhappy officer found himself 
dragged through the horse-pond, with an 
intimation when allowed to get away half 
drowned, that if caught again under similar 
circumstances, he would not escape without 
hanging. This, together with the intempe- 
rate behavior of the justice, operated with 
wonderful effect upon the whole body, and 
they unanimously adopted the opinion the 
offender had left the country. 

Some time after these occurrences his 
worship gained intelligence that young 
Shakspeare had been all the while residing 
at the cottage of his father-in-law, and more- 
over that he was the very infamous base 
caitiff who had penned the bitter ballad that 
had been stuck upon his gates. This was 
adding fuel to the flame. The justice was 
in such a monstrous fire of indignation that 
he hardly knew what to set about. The un- 
lucky constables were ordered to attend him 
instantly, and upon these he poured out the 
violent rage that was brimming over in him. 
TUey declared their conviction the escaped 



prisoner had gone from those parts altogether 
— nay, one confidently asserted a brother of 
his had seen bim in London selling oysters, 
and another was as ready to swear he had 
been met with by a cousin of his on a pie- 
bald horse, within a mile or so of Oxford. 
His worship was puzzled, and the more puz- 
zled his worship appeared, the more confi- 
dent did the constables become in their as- 
sertions. At last he ordered them to accom- 
pany him, and then started off in the midst 
of them, on the roa^o the yeoman's cottage. 

William Shakspeare was busily engaged 
with a party of farm laborers in putting up 
a hay-rick in his father-in-law's paddock, 
when one of the children came running in 
all haste to say his worship was approaching 
the house with a great company of men — in 
an instant he was covered up in the hay as 
snugly as possible, and his companions, care- 
lessly singing, continued their work lifting 
up the new hay to the top of the rick and 
there spreading it smooth and even. Pres- 
ently the expected party made their appear- 
ance. Sir Thomas, in a terrible anxiety to 
find the culprit, and the constables quite as 
anxious he should be found. 

" Dost know anything of one William 
Shakspeare, fellow ?" inquired the knight 
authoritatively of a freckled-face knave lame 
of a leg. The latter gazed with open mouth 
for a few moments at his interrogator, and 
then turning round to his next neighbor, 
very gravely repeated the question — his fel- 
low looked up very hard, and then looked 
down very hard, and then addressed another 
of his companions with the same question— 
and thus it went round the whole six of them 
with exactly the same result. His worship 
was horribly inclined to break out into a 
deadly passion. 

" Wounds, I ha' got un !" exclaimed he of 
the freckled face, slapping his knee very 
sharply with his palm. " His worship no 
doubt, wants the blind piper that lives down 
yonder below the mill." 

" I'll warrant, so he do," added another, 
with a like gravity. 

" I tell thee no ! I tell thee no !" bawled 
out the justice, as the haymakers were 
shouting their information into his ears, as 
if each was striving to be heard above the 
other ; " I want no such person. I seek 
one William Shakspeare, a convicted dear- 
stealer, who married John Hathaway's 
daughter." 

At this the lame one cast an exceeding 
long face, rubbed his knuckles against his 
eyes, and turned away very pitifully ; and 
the others did just the same. 

" What hath become of him, I say ?" cnei 



184 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



the knight, more imperatively, not exactly- 
knowing what to make of these demonstra- 
tions. 

t( An' it please your worship," cried freck- 
led face, blubbering as if his heart was a 
breaking, " no man can help it. I would he 
had lived longer, perchance he might have 
been all the older for it." 

" Is he dead indeed, now fellow ?" in- 
quired the old knight, looking somewhat 
confounded at this unexpected news. 

" An' it please you, Wieard he made so 
fine an end, it was better than a sermon at 
fast days," observed another, as woeful as 
his companion. 

" Who's that laughing ?" exclaimed Sir 
Thomas, very sharply ; " there's some one 
behind the rick. Bring him' here ! Body 
o' me, I'll teach the unmannerly knave bet- 
ter behavior." The constables hurried be- 
hind the rick, but not the slightest sign of 
any one was there. This put his worship 
into a rage. He had ceitainly heard some- 
body, and felt a monstrous inclination to 
punish a person guilty of treating him with 
so little respect. One of the men thought 
it was an owl, another took it to be a bat, 
and a third assured his worship it was only 
the old sow, who, on an occasion, could 
grunt in a way marvellous like one laugh- 
ing. The justice did not appear to be per- 
fectly satisfied with these explanations ; but, 
after questioning the men some short time 
longer, and getting from them no greater 
intelligence, he found himself forced to turn 
away no wiser than he came. Threatening 
them all with the terriblest punishments, if 
he discovered they had told him falsely, the 
old knight retraced his steps, resolving to 
see his intelligencer again, and examine him 
strictly on the correctness of his information, 
of the which he now entertained some doubts. 

" Take heed of the dog, an' it please your 
worship," cried one of the hay-makers, 
•doubtless with most benevolent intentions ; 
but unfortunately, he gave the caution a mo- 
ment too late, for as the justice was picking 
his way carefully along, a dog rushed out 
of a kennel close upon him, and gave him 
so smart a bite in the leg, that he roared 
again. The youthful Shakspeare peeped 
from bis hiding place at hearing this noise, 
and had the satisfaction of seeing the old 
knight hopping along the yard at the top of 
his speed, furiously pursued by a flock of 
noisy geese and turkeys, who seemed quite 
as much inclined for a bite of his legs as the 
dog had been. His little army did not make 
their retreat in a much more orderly manner, 
tor the house-dog flew at them as they pass- 
ted his kennel, and the turkeys and geese 



pursued them when they crossed the yard- 
His worship was more hurt by the shouts of 
laughter which followed his undignified exit, 
than he had been by the bite he had received, 
but oh, more unpalatable than all ! — as he 
was returning home in a most horrible hu- 
mor, what should he hear, but a parcel of 
little children singing the offensive ballad 
writ upon him, as loud as they could baw) 
it. His wrath was too great for utterance. 
He felt he could have hanged every little 
rogue of them all ; but resolved to go to 
town, and complain to the privy council how 
infamously he had been used. 

After well abusing the constables, and ev- 
ery one else that . came within his reach, he 
sought the unhappy Mabel, and poured out 
the remainder of his rage upon her ; swear- 
ing she should marry his friend's servant 
and no other, and bidding her prepare her- 
self for doing so within a month at least, as 
he was determined it should then take place. 
The poor foundling too well knew the char- 
acter of her companion tc attempt to parley 
with him on the subject. It was manifest 
her villainous persecutors would not let her 
rest whilst there remained the slightest 
chance of their getting her into their power ; 
and having the positive and unsuspicious 
knight, and his most obedient lady to assist 
them, they fully persuaded themselves their 
success was certain. The only bar seemed 
to lie in the disinclination of her affianced 
husband to be an agent in the business ; but 
at last, the bribes he was offered appeared 
to stifle his conscience, and he promised to 
carry on the matter to its conclusion. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

Not a word spake he more than was nede, 
And that was said in forme and reverence, 
And short and quike, and full of high sentence, 
Souning in moral virtue was his speche, 
And gladly would he learn, and gladly teche. 

Chaucer. 

Kath. What our destinies 

Have ruled out in their books we must not search, 

But kneel to. 

War. Then to fear when hope is fruitless, 

Were to be desperately miserable ; 

Which poverty our greatness does not dream of, 

And, much more, 3corns to stoop to ; some few 

minutes 
Remain yet, let's be thrifty in our hopes. 

Ford. 

Time passed on, and in due time the yotmg 
husband was made a father.. This occai>» 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



185 



rence gave his feelings a new impulse. A 
vouth of nineteen, possessed of such deep 
sympathies, and so ready to indulge them on 
all natural objects as was the youthful 
Shakspeare, on such an occasion must needs 
experience a most choice and exquisite grati- 
fication. He felt he had got a stronger 
claim on his exertions than had he hitherto, 
and labored with higher aims than he had 
before known. Jemmy Catchpole, much as 
he inclined to do so, knowing of his worth, 
did not dare employ him ; and when he was 
not assisting his father-in-law in farming, 
his chief occupation was teaching the sons 
of the neighboring farmers and yeomen such 
matters of schooling as it was customary for 
them to learn ; and this he did so tenderly, 
and in so scholarlike a manner, that by the 
parents he soon got to be approved of before 
all teachers. During this time he failed 
not to continue his own studies in such fash- 
ion as he had been used to ; and it was ac- 
knowledged, of every person of his acquaint- 
ance, that, for learning, they had nover met 
with his peer. 

Yet, all this while, he was far from being 
happy. The ardor of his passion for the 
yeoman's blooming daughter had blinded 
him to many faults he could not avoid per- 
ceiving in her on closer acquaintance. She 
had been spoiled by indulgence all her life. 
Her father had allowed her to do much as 
she pleased, which had put into her the notion 
that what she did must always be right, and 
she would not have it gainsayed of any. 

The youthful Shakspeare discovered too 
late, his wife's deficiencies in the necessary 
qualities of mind. Indeed she was perfect- 
ly uneducated, and her ignorance made her 
unconscious of the mischief she was doing 
by her ungracious conduct. She was not 
naturally of an unamiable disposition ; in- 
deed, at times she was too prodigal in the 
display of her kinder feelings, but vanity 
had filled her with most preposterous preju- 
dices ; and if her husband opposed her, how- 
ever slightly, in any matter, however reason- 
able on his part, she would regard it as 
using her exceeding ill, and get out of tem- 
per speedily, and say uncivil words, and 
show all manner of discourteous behavior. 
This made her youthful helpmate see into 
her character more, and more, and the more 
he saw the less he li <ed, and the less he 
liked the less he respected. The charm of 
her beauty gradually vanished away ; and 
as she had nothing in her conversation to 
attract him, she had no sort of hold over him 
beyond that of being the mother of his child. 
Still he treated her as affectionately as ever 
he had done, considering himself the most 



to blame for his too great precipitancy, al- 
lowing her no just cause of complaint — and 
striving whatever he could to bring her, by 
fair persuasions, to a more admirable way 
of behaving. 

Every day he beheld stronger proofs of a 
vain disposition acting upon a weak mind. 
Fits of sullenness followed close upon the 
heels of outbi-eaks of temper — she neglected 
the proper duties of a wife and a mother, to 
enjoy any pastime that was within her reach 
— and by the lack of ordinary comfort to be 
had at heme, she frequently drove her hus- 
band to seek his pleasure where he could. 
It was a grief that touched him where he 
could have little or no defence ; for when he 
attempted to remonstrate, in order that he 
might fail in nothing to induce her to act 
more commendably, it was sure to end in 
such a scene of obstinacy, wounded self- 
love, and unamiable behaving, as plainly 
showed him there was marvellous slight 
hopes she Would mend. 

Again he became a father. On the first oc- 
casion his child was a girl, that he had had 
christened by the name of Susanna, and now 
his wife brought him twins, a boy and a girl, 
that were severally named Hamnet and Ju- 
dith. For a time this made him regardless 
of the mother's deficiencies, and increased 
his kindnesses to her : besides which he en- 
tertained many anxious thoughts of the future. 
His own means were in no way adequate to 
his wants, and although John Hathaway 
took heed of these, so that he should feel 
them but lightly, he would rather, by many 
degrees, have satisfied them of his own labor. 
His old companions, Greene, Burbage, Con- 
dell, and Hemings, had one by one gone to 
join the players ; and such reports of their 
well-doing had reached him, as made him 
marvellous desirous of following their ex- 
ample. 

Unfortunately, his wife merely regarded 
this late increase in her family as a vast ac- 
cession to her claims to have her will in 
everything that was most preposterous ; and 
more than ever was inclined to behave her- 
self as she pleased, and resent in every pos- 
sible way, any attempt to thwart her incli- 
nations. Consequently she daily made 
greater demands on her husband's patience, 
which sometimes forced from him weli- 
meant arguments, the which she took very 
bitterly : and lie rinding her to grow so much 
the worse, so much the more he strove by 
kindness to make her better, at last made 
her to know he would leave her, did she not 
seek to lead him a pleasanter life. But thia 
was far from making her alter her ungra- 
ciousness towards him. for she appeared to 



166 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



take it as if she would as soon he went as 
staid. Still the young husband was reluc- 
tant to give her up. He would have been 
glad to have had any friend's advice, for he 
saw nought before him but an increasing 
wretchedness, remained he where he was ; 
and to quit her and the children, although 
he was well aware her father would properly 
provide for them, he could not reconcile his 
conscience to ; but he had no friend at this 
time fit to advise with him in such a strait. 
His friends at Sir Marmaduke's he had not 
seen sometime, for as he grew to manhood 
he felt he could not associate with persons 
so far above him as he had done whilst a 
boy, and went there less and less, till he re- 
frained from such visits altogether ; and he 
liked not going to John a Combe, remember- 
ing how urgently he had warned him 
against pursuing the very course of which 
he was now feeling the evil consequences. 

After many long and comfortless reflec- 
tions, he resolved on making a last effort. 
One fine May morning, a few months after 
the christening of the twins, he presented 
himself before her. They were alone. She 
was tiring of herself in all her choicest bra- 
veries, to attend some festival in the neigh- 
borhood. A sort of sprightly indifference 
was in her manner as she saw her husband 
&,> Much ; as he noticed this, and heard one 
of trie children crying unheeded, in the next 
chamber, he had no great hope of success 
in his present undertaking — nevertheless he 
felt it to be his duty to proceed in it. He 
walked up and down the chamber with an 
aching heart, she humming of a tune the 
while, and decking herself in her finery as 
if in a perfect carelessness of everything 
save her own pleasure. 

" Anne, I pray you look to the child, it 
cryeth most pitifully !" exclaimed he at last. 

" Joan is there," replied she, carelessly. 

" It seemeth that it requireth its mother, 
and will not be satisfied with Joan," ob- 
served her husband. 

" Then it must be satisfied with her, for I 
cannot be ever with the children," answered 
his wife, with some pettishness. 

" Methinks the gratifying the natural 
desires of a young babe should be held he- 
fore all other things wi h its mother," said 
William Shakspeare. '" She hath a sacred 
obligation imposed on her which she ought 
in no way to neglect for the furthering of 
her own immediate convenience." 

" Tut ! what should men know of such 
matters !" cried his companion. " Truly, a 
fine life of it a poor woman would lead who 
followed such old saws. I will do no such 



folly, depend on't. I marvel you should in- 
terfere in things so out of your province; 
but 'tis done merely to prevent my taking 
my proper pleasure — nevertheless it seemetfi 
to me good I enjoy it." 

" I cannot have the slightest wish to debar 
you of your proper pleasures," replied her 
husband ; " in very truth I would strive my 
utmost you should enjoy as much happiness 
as woman can." 

" You don't !" exclaimed the other, sharp- 
ly ; " you are in a constant mood of finding 
fault with me — you will never do as I wish : 
and when I am for the pleasuring myself 
with my neighbors, you fail not to raise all 
manner of foolish improper objections." 

" I cannot call any such proper pleasures, 
when your neighbors are looked to and your 
children neglected," observed he. 

" Marry, I care not what you call them," 
she answered ; " 1 will do as I list, take it 
a3 you may." 

" Anne, I implore you to pause in this 
most unsemely behaving," said her com- 
panion, very urgently ; " it doth cause- me 
infinite unhappiness to see you so forget 
yourself. The ordinary duties of a fond 
good wife and mother are thrust aside and 
lost sight of, through utter carelessness. 
None could furnish my house so pleasantly 
as yourself, if it chose you to do so ; but you 
seek to make it as wretched as you can by 
all manner of unbecomingness, unkindness, 
and neglect. I pray you change such a 
course for one more desirable to me and 
more creditable to yourself ; and you shall 
find I do not lack gratitude." 

"Gratitude!" echoed the spoiled woman, 
with considerable bitterness. " O' my word 
I have had enough of your gratitude. I 
have left divers rich suitors to take up with 
you, who had not so much as would buy me 
a day's meal. I have brought you every 
comfort you have in the way of lodging, 
clothing, and victual; and moreover three 
as fine children as an honest father could 
desire ; and yet I am treated as though I 
had done nothing of all this. 'Tis a fine 
thing, truly, to treat one so ill who hath been 
so bountiful to you ; but I will put up with 
no such treatment, I promise you. I will 
act as it seemeth best to my humor ; and in 
no case will I be driven from my innocent 
pastime at the will of an ungrateful worth- 
less husband." 

" I have already told you I strive not to 
check you in anything innocent at a proper 
time," replied her husband ; " but I cannot 
see you ruin your own happiness and mine 
by a wilful obstinacy in doing wrong." 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



167 



You're a base inhuman wretch !" ex- 
claimed the yeoman's daughter. 

"I have sought all occasions and all ar- 
guments, to persuade you to act more be- 
comingly," continued he, " and only brought 
on myself bitter taunts and ungenerous re- 
flections." 

" I wish I had never seen your f tee, you 
ungrateful vile caitiff !" added his com- 
panion. 

" There now remaineth but one thing for 
me to do," said William Shakspeare, betray- 
ing by his voice the struggle in his nature ; 
" as 'tis impossible we can live happily to- 
gether, we must part !"' 

" Oh, you may go!" replied she, with a 
careless toss of her head ; " and I care not 
how soon — and I shall not fret for your com- 
ing back, I promise you." 

" I beseech you, as my last request, show 
such love to the dear children as their ten- 
der years entitle them to," said the youthful 
father, so moved he could scarce speak. 

" I pray you despatch yourself, since you 
are for going," answered the thoughtless 
wife more bitterly than before ; " and forget 
not o take with you all that you brought !" 
Her husband cast one look of reproach on 
the once object of his so great love — turned 
away almost choking with his overpower- 
ing sensations, and in the next moment had 
left the cottage, — the scene of a thousand 
exquisite pleasures — never to enter it again. 
He iirst bent his steps toward'Henley Street, 
to take leave of his parents, and then left the 
town without speech of any other, for with 
his present feelings he cared not to be idly 
talked to and questioned. When he had 
gone some little distance he stopped to take 
a last look of his native place. There lay 
the steeple of the old church, towering above 
the surrounding houses and trees — the fair 
land-mark he had hailed returning from so 
many pleasant rambles ; there lay his fa-, 
ther's dwelling, hallowed in his recollection 
by a whole history of early studies, struggles, 
and pleasures ; there lay the winding Avon, 
in whose sweet waters he had so often laved 
his limbs, or gathered from its banks con- 
tinual store of blooming treasure ; and there 
lay a hundred other spots equally well de- 
Berving of his remembrance, as the scene of 
some childish sport or youthful adventure. 

He gazed in another direction, and if the 
yeoman's pretty cottage was not made oyit 
in the landscape, he had it in his eyes as 
clearly as when he first beheld it, attracted 
thereto by the cheerful singing of the bloom- 
ing girl at her spinning-wheel. Then fol- 
lowed scene after scene of exquisite enjoy- 
ment The evenii£ meetings, where she 
11 



waited for him at the next style — their deli- 
cious salutations there — their gentle . stroll 
together back to the old walnut tree, and all 
the goodly entertainment he had under its 
friendly shadows, till, after some dozen re- 
luctant farewells, he forced himself away. 
And last of all came sullen looks and pro- 
voking words, and a crowd of attendant 
miseries, created by the unfeeling thought- 
less carelessness of that weak vain woman. 
And now he saw himself a wanderer to go 
wheresoever he would, driven from his home 
by the very means that had brought such 
home to him, and deprived of happiness by 
having had the possession of what he had 
so long believed could alone secure it him 
forever. These remembrances took such 
painful hold of his heart, that the anguish 
he endured at that moment was beyond 
everything he had hitherto suffered. 

" Thou shalt see better days anon, dear 
heart !" exclaimed a familiar voice, aric 
turning round, he beheld Nurse Cicely 
" Pleasure cometh after suffering as natu- 
rally as the green buds after the early rains. 
All things have their season. Thy time ia 
now for sorrow ; but bear up nobly, and be 
assured greatness shall come of it beyond 
thy brightest hopes. A fair journey to thee 
my sweeting !" — So saying, the old woman 
hobbled away, leaving the youthful Shaks- 
peare in an especial marvel at her strange 
words. She had often addressed him in a 
like manner previously, but he had paid little 
attention, to what she had said, — now, how- 
ever, he pondered on it as he went along, 
and not without some particular satisfaction. 
He had not proceeded a quarter of a mile 
when he met John a Combe. He would 
have avoided him if he could, for he liked 
not his company at that moment ; but the 
usurer came suddenly upon him from a lane 
which led into the road, along which Wil- 
liam Shakspeare was passing. 

" So !" cried John a Combe, in his usual 
bitter manner, " thou wouldst not be led by 
my advice, and art now smarting for't. 
Serves thee right. But every fool doth the 
same. Tell them where lies the mischief, 
they run into it on the instant, — suffer first 
and repent after. Prithee, what dost intend 
doing ?" 

" I am for making the best of my way to 
London, where I expect meeting with cer- 
tain friends of mine," replied his young com- 
panion. 

" Ay, boy, thoult meet fools enough there, 
I'll warrant," answered the usurer, sharply. 
" But 'tis a long journey, and requireth some 
expense on the way. How art off for 
means ?" 



168 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEAItE. 



" In truth not over well — but I must e'en 
do as I best may," said the other. 

" Give me thy purse !" exclaimed John a 
Jombe, and without more ado, he snatched 
tfrom his girdle, and then turned his back 
to him to see what was in it. " As I live, 
no more than a groat and a shilling !" con- 
tinued he, in seeming monstrous astonish- 
ment. " Why, ere thou has got a good 
dozen mile thou will be forced to eat thyself 
for lack of victual. Here, let me put thy 
purse in thy girdle again." And then the 
usurer carefully replaced it. " Thou and 
thy wits have parted company, that's a sure 
thing." 

" I would ask one favor of you, good Mas- 
ter Combe, before I leave you." 

" Nay, I will lend thee no money !■"' quick- 
ly replied his companion. " It be not a 
likely thing a usurer should trust one who 
starteth on a long journey, with only a knob- 
bed stick by way of weapon, with a bundle 
of linen at the end on't carried over his 
shoulder by way of luggage, and a shrove- 
groat shilling, and a cracked groat in his 
purse, for store of money for spending." 

" I do not require of you such a thing," 
replied William Shakspeare. " All 1 would 
of you is that if my dear parents need what 
you have to spare, you will do your good 
offices to them, and as soon as fortune fa- 
voreth me somewhat, I will return whatever 
you are so generous as to furnish." 

" Truly a fine story !" remarked John a 
Combe. " Though art sure to come to great 
wealth with so prodigious a beginning ! It 
would be monstrous like a usurer, methinks, 
to lend on such poor security." 

'■' An' you will not I cannot help it," said 
the other dejectedly. 

" Nay, I said not I refused !" exclaimed 
the usurer. " So there is no great occasion 
thou shouldst look so woe-begone. Indeed, 
I care not to acquaint thee, for thy comfort, 
seeing though art not likely to come back 
and tell my neighbors of my infinite foolish- 
ness, I have been thy honest father's friend 
this many a year, and he not know it." His 
young companion seized his hand gratefully, 
and looked more thanks than he could have 
spoken had he twenty tongues. He knew 
that some secret person had. for a consider- 
able period of years been sending sums of 
money when his parents were in their great- 
est need, and now it came out it was Mas- 
ter Combe and no other. 

" I cannot get out of my old folly, try how 
I will," continued he, more moved by the 
other's simple manifestation of his feelings 
Jian he chose to show. " Of the baseness 
of the world, methinks I have had proof 



enough. O' my life ! there cannot oe found 
more convincing evidence than an honest 
worthy man suffering poverty in mean 
clothing and poor victual, while baseness in 
a fine doublet, taketh sauce with his capon, 
and hath money to spare." 

" Doubtless the world containeth some un- 
worthy persons," observed William Shaks- 
peare. " It is scarce reasonable to expect 
it can be otherwise, when such countless 
multitudes are to be met with in each part 
of the globe. We shall find weeds in every 
field ; but surely the field deserveth to be 
called a good field for all that. But why 
should we dwell on such things ? There 
are flowers, peeping out from our very foot- 
steps go where we will, and yet we will not 
see them, but care only to spy what is un- 
sightly and unprofitable. In honest truth, 
worthy sir, methinks we do Nature a huge 
wrong by such behavior of ours. 'Tis man- 
ifest injustice to be so blind to merit, and to 
see only that which is -not likely to call for 
our admiration." 

" Nay, boy, 'tis the world that is blind to 
merit, not I," answered the usurer. " I be- 
hold thy honest parents struggling all they 
can to live with a fair credit though terribly 
pinched i' the ribs, and. the world shutteth 
its Argus eyes and passeth by. I behold 
their worthy son showing signs of an hon- 
orable disposition, and talents deserving of as 
high estimation, yet the world doth appre- 
ciate him at so low a price, it will allow of 
his starting a long journey to London on a 
chance errand to fortune, with no greater 
provision than a shilling and a groat. All 
this while the world giveth to villains place 
and ceremony, and maketh a shallow-witted 
coxcomb with broad acres pass for a. knight 
o' the shire, and justice o' the peace." 

" But how know we this state of things 
will always continue ?" said his young com- 
panion ; " it may be, for such changes have 
happened before, that when Master Justice 
is feeding of the worms, my dear parents 
shall be enjoying of as much comfort as their 
hearts can desire ; and I, whom he hath so 
often strove to play his poor spite upon, may 
leave to my children a better name out of 
such poor talents as I have, than could he, 
out of all his broad acres and fine house, 
serving-men and constables, his worship and 
knightship, and every other sign of great- 
ness whereof he is used to make such fa- 
mous boasting, into the bargain." 

" See I this, I will believe it," said John a 
Combe ; " yet, with the knowledge I have 01 
the world's baseness, I expect no such wel« 
come changes. Justice is painted blind, 
and blind she is beyond question." 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



169 



* I have other thoughts of that," replied 
William Shakspeare. " I believe that it 
very rarely happens, when merit showeth 
itself in any conspicuousness, it is not kind- 
ly taken by the hand to be exalted above all 
meaner natures." 

" Ay, boy, on the pillory or the gibbet," 
drily added the usurer ; " but thou art past 
arguing. Just as I was at thy age art thou. 
I would allow none to convince me of any 
such thing as injustice in nature. Marry, I 
had such convincing at last, as left me with- 
out a doubt to stand upon. I would have 
thee grow wiser than thou art, but in mercy 
I would not wish thee any such resistless 
arguments as crushed my favorable opinions 
out of me. Get thee gone Will Shakspeare, 
and speed on thy errand as well as thou 
canst. If so be thou art not doing well, 
write to me without fail ; but at any rate let 
me know how thou art proceeding." 

" One thing more, worthy Master Combe," 
said his young companion urgently ; " since 
you have been so good as to talk of writing, 
I would you would do me such kind service 
as to see my children as oft as may be con- 
venient to you, and let me know how they 
get on in all things." 

" And their mother ?" added the usurer, 
with somewhat of sarcasm. 

"If you know any thing concerning of 
her worthy to be told, acquaint me with it 
by all means ; but if of another nature, I 
care not to hear of it." 

" Ha !" exclaimed the usurer, sharply ; 
" let it be even so. And now fare thee well, 
W ; .ll Shakspeare. I wish thee every man- 
ner of good, though I am in huge doubt any- 
thing of the sort is to be found." 

" Truly, I cannot help seeing it in your- 
self, worthy Master Combe, despite your un- 
gracious seeming," replied his young friend, 
parting with him in sincere regret. After 
going a few paces, he turned round to take 
another glance at his old acquaintance, and 
to his surprise, beheld him standing still, 
looking after him with an aspect of deeper 
feeling than ever he had observed in him be- 
fore ; but immediately he was noticed, he 
took on himself the same severe expression 
of countenance he was wont to wear, and 
then turning quickly away, paced onwards 
towards the town. 

As William Shakspeare was thinking 
over the strangeness of his companion, his 
eyes suddenly lighted on his purse, which 
seemed to be much increased in size since he 
last had sight of it, he took it into his hand, 
and looking to its contents, to his prodigious 
marvelling, discovered as goodly a store of 
coin as he could need the whole length of his 



journey. Here was a fresh instance of th« 
unhappy usurer's secret manner of doing 
kindness where it was most needed, and the 
discovery of it had such effect on the sensi- 
tive nature of him he had so providently 
thought of, that it refreshed him with many 
sweet feelings, and sent him on his long 
journey with a more cheerful spirit than he 
had known a long time. He appeared now 
to have at his will the means of procuring 
what he most wished. For with such a 
sanguine disposition as he possessed, he be- 
lieved that were he once in London, he 
should speedily get such employment as he 
desired, and then he had in him that convic- 
tion he would raise himself greatly, often 
attending upon the youthful and imagina- 
tive. 

Filled with these considerations, and with 
manifold fine plans and excellent fair pros- 
pects, he trudged manfully along. 

The day was well-favored a day to look 
on as ever appeared in that merry month ; 
the hedges being all over covered with deli- 
cate May, and the banks as prodigally gift- 
ed with the dainty gifts of the season, which 
made the air so exquisite, nothing could ex- 
ceed it in delectable sweetness ; added to 
which, such, crowds of small birds were 
tuning of their little pipes upon every tree 
and bush, as made most ravishing music all 
along the road. I doubt much the delight- 
some aspect of Nature was as pleasantly 
regarded as it deserved to be by the youthful 
wanderer ; for although he had but a few 
minutes since determined in his mind he 
would think no more of his unhappiness, the 
sight of the odorous flowery hedges brought 
to his memory that gay morning he went a- 
maying with his then so deeply loved Anne 
Hathaway, and the unutterable gladness he 
enjoyed because of her sharing with him the 
excellent brave pastimes of that memorable 
day. 

Whilst he was so deeply engaged with 
such thinking, he did not notice he had a 
companion, evidently striving to keep up 
with him, whom he had just passed. This 
person appeared to be, by his dress, a young 
boy of some gentle family ; for he was clad 
very neatly in a suit of fine broadcloth, of a 
gay orange-tawney color, with good kersey 
hose, shoes with roses, a well appointed hat 
and feather on his head, and a light stick 01 
staff in his hand. In person he was of an 
exceeding elegant shape, indeed such deli- 
cate symmetry of limbs is rarely to be met 
with ; and in features he was of a fair hand- 
someness, yet of a complexion so wan and 
sickly, it looked as though he was fitter to 
be in his bed than to be a traveller for ever 



170 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



so short a distance. He looked fatigued, 
and it was manifest he could ill keep up with 
the manly strides of the youthful Shaks- 
peare. 

" I pray you, sweet sir, walk not so fast, 
for I should be wondrous glad of your hon- 
est company." 

The other turned round somewhat sur- 
prised, not knowing any one was so nigh 
him, and was moved with extreme pity at 
the slight glance he took of the pallid suf- 
fering countenance of the young stranger. 
He lessened his pace on the instant. 

" Go you far on this road, my young mas- 
ter ?" inquired he courteously. 

" Truly, I know not," replied his com- 
panion, in a manner somewhat hesitating ; 
" but the farther I get from the place I have 
left, the more pleased I shall be." 

" Yet you seem in no way fit to go on a 
journey," observed William Shakspeare, in 
some marvel at what he had just heard. " I 
doubt you are strong enough for much walk- 
ing." 

" I have been in a great sickness a long 
time, sweet sir," replied the other ; " but as 
I recovered, I found such villainy approach- 
ing me, that I thought it better to trust to 
the chance of perishing on a strange road 
than remaining where I was." At hearing 
this his companion marvelled the more. 

"Keep a good heart, I pray you !" ex- 
claimed the youthful Shakspeare, ready at 
a moment to sympathize with any unhappy 
person. " If it please you to let me bear 
you company, I will take such heed of you, 
you shall come to no hurt. But to what 
place are you bound 2" 

" To any, where I can live in proper hon- 
esty," replied the young stranger. " I will 
willingly essay my strength in such humble 
manner of living as I can get, with no higher 
end than the keeping me a worthy name." 

William Shakspeare said nothing, but he 
thought in his mind his fellow-traveller had 
but a poor chance of a living, relied he only 
on his strength, and resolved st least, that, 
as he wanted a friend, a friend he should 
have. With the true delicacy of a noble 
mind, he refrained from asking him any 
questions which might seem to come of over 
ouriousness, but began to talk cheerfully to 
him, telling him to hope for better times, and 
entertaining him with such pleasant dis- 
course as he had at his commandment. And 
so these two proceeded together. The one 
in the full strength of early manhood, and, 
though bereft of his happiness, full of health 
and hope — the other, apparently in the fresh 
dawning of youth, and in as little comfort of 
body as of mind. 



Methinks this, chapter in no case ought to 
be brought to a conclusion, without requir- 
ing of the courteous reader especial notice 
of a matter therein treated ; which, it is to 
be hoped, will be to his singular profit. In 
the development of this my story, there hath 
been made manifest how that kind of love, 
which is merely ideal, endeth in a complete 
nothingness, as far as its object is concerned, 
it being only a fair herald of a more natural 
passion ; but in the later pages it is shown, 
that the affection which cometh but of the 
delight taken by the senses in personal come- 
liness, must meet with a still more unsatis- 
factory conclusion. It is true that Nature 
hath planted in the human heart a capacity 
for enjoying the beautiful, and a desire to 
obtain its possession ; and the affections of 
the individual, like unto clear waters, do, most 
perfectly bear in them the resemblance of 
whatsoever shape appeareth to them in most 
perfectness ; but it should ever be borne in 
mind, that there are beauties of far sweeter 
and lasting value, than such as are wont to 
lie on the surface of things, and that these 
constitute the sole proper source of their 
admirableness. The flowers, the stars, and 
every form of matter, animate or inanimate, 
impressed with the configuration most pleas- 
ing to the sight, possess qualities which make 
them the love* of the poet and the true philo- 
sophic sort of persons, exceedingly more so 
than their mere appearance. They exhibit 
signs of intelligence, by which they are 
known to be part of the universal good ; and 
for the worth they show are worthily appre- 
ciated. 

Such should it be with things that more 
intimately appertain to humanity. The 
agreeable face and graceful person are the 
unprofitablest of objects, unless they carry . 
with them the fairer signs of mind and feel- 
ing. They may be regarded as such fruit 
as come of plants imperfectly cultivated, 
that look tempting to the eye, but are in- 
tolerable to the taste ; and save the pretty 
sort of way in which they do garnish their 
boughs, are of no goodness whatsoever. In 
this same goodness — which is nought else 
but another name for intelligence — lieth the 
real source and conclusion of all honest love. 
This is it that sows the seed — this is it that 
obtains infinite crops of exquisite sweet fruit. 
Where there is no moral excellence, there 
can never be any moral advantage. The 
youthful Shakspeare, therefore, in showing, 
as he did, a total indifference to aught else 
save the personal charms of the blooming 
daughter of John Hathaway, brought on 
himself the positive evil which proceedeth 
from insufficiency of good. But thus aro 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE, 



171 



the marvellous lessons of Nature taught, 
and how oft are they placed before us in 
this very fashion ! The youth of both sexes, 
full of the delicious sympathies so newly 
grown within their breasts, regard in the 
other, symmetry of limb and loveliness of 
feature, as vouchers for whatsoever is pro- 
perest and most desirable, and, at times, do 
get their several senses so intoxicated by 
allowing of their imaginations to be excited 
by the strong draughts proceeding from rosy 
smiling lips and lustrous enticing eyes, that 
they clean forget there is aught else in the 
world worthy of their having. The capacity 
for enjoyment satiated, quick on the heels 
of it followeth the ordinary ending of such 
foolishness. 

At the age of eighteen years, it is incon- 
sistent with experience to expect the human 
heart to be philosophical. Before that age, 
William Shakspeare found his whole nature 
thrilled with a passion for a female eight 
years his senior, and consequently, in the 
possession of every charm of mature woman- 
hood. He revelled in the delusive gratifica- 
tion of an attachment placed on no surer 
foundation than personal beauty, and fixing 
his happiness there, on due time found it 
levelled to the dust. The result hath ren- 
dered him a homeless adventurer, banished 
from his domestic hearth to seek, amongst 
strangers, that comfort he had lost every 
hope of where he believed it to be most 
secure. Now must he work out the penalty 
of his offence, and, by his example, teach a 
great moral lesson unto all humanity, which, 
perchance, shall not be altogether lost sight 
of at this time, or at any other. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

Example I fynde of Alesaundr Nexam as he 
wryteth, how there was sumtyme a knyght 
came from ferr cuntries woude seek aventures. 
So it fortuned to a forrest wher he herd a grete 
noyce of a beste crying. 

Harleian MSS. No. 2247. 
The misery of us that are born great. 
We are f.uced to woo, because none dare woo us ; 
And as a tyraut doubles with his words, 
And fearfully equivocates, so we 
Are forced to express our violent passions 
In riddles and iu dreams, and leave the path 
Of simple virtue, which was never made 
To seem the thing it is not. 

Webster. 

"Ifea.e me I cannot proceed further," 
•aid the younger of the two travellers, lean- 



ing against a tree, with head drooping, and 
every sign in him of thorough exhaustion 
and faintness. 

" I beseech you good Bertram, lean on me !" 
exclaimed William Shakspeare, urgently. 
" Let us get out of this wood as speedily as 
we may, for the sun hath set some time, and 
we are liked to get benighted in this strange 
place, stay we where we are much longer.'' 

" I doubt my strength will hold sufficient, 
yet I will strive my utmost," replied his 
young companion, in a very feeble voice. 
Thereupon he leaned his head upon the 
other's shoulder, whilst the latter held him 
round the waist with his left arm, and thus 
they proceeded, at a slow pace, following a 
path which led through a thick wood on each 
side of them. The trees, principally hazel, 
were in their freshest leaves, save some that 
were only a budding, and those of the wild 
plum and cherry were clothed in all their 
delicate bloom . The roots of the larger trees 
were wra^pt in a soft covering of dainty green 
moss, through which the lance-shaped leaves 
of the lily of the valley made their appear- 
ance in countless numbers — seemingly as 
far as the eye could see — mingled with a 
very prodigal display, not only of all manner 
of seasonable flowers of divers colors, but 
with numberless plants and herbs, some 
savory and others noxious, that thrust them- 
selves out at every corner. Nothing was 
visible around but trees and underwood such 
as hath been described, save here and there, 
when they came to an open place where the 
wood had been thinned ; and then they be- 
held some once goodly tree recently felled, 
stripped of its branches, barked, and lying 
on the ground a shapeless, naked trunk ; and 
in other places were small logs for burning, 
piled up in heaps, with great store of hurdles, 
bavins, faggots, and other things belonging 
to the woodman's craft. 

It was evident the men had left work— 
the whole place was so still — not a sound 
heard the ^oung travellers when they ceased 
talking, but the monotonous note of the 
cuckoo. The path was not in any way a 
pleasant one, for it was in a hard, rough 
soil, with deep ruts on each side, formed by 
the passage of heavy carts when the ground 
was in a softer state, and led now up and 
now down — crossed occasionally b)' other 
paths of a like appearance, with some nar- 
rower and less worn, which appeared to be 
only for foot passengers, with room for but 
one at a time. Yet along this unpleasant 
way the two pursued their journey in the 
manner already mentioned ; the more youth- 
ful one manifestly sinking at every step, 
despite of the other's tender charge of him. 



na 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



and encouraging speech to help him along. 

Truly, it was a sight well worthy to be 
looked on, these gentle persons travelling in 
bo friendly a way, the handsome manly face 
of William Shakspeare beaming with a 
sweet benevolence, as with all the tender 
sympathy of his nature, he gazed upon the 
upturned pallid countenance of his more 
youthful associate ; but although the latter 
strove, as forcibly as he could, to get along, 
it was easy to see, by the languid style in 
which he drew one leg after the other, and 
the quick paling of his lips, that he could 
continue even this sort of progress but a very 
little longer. 

" Cheer thee, sweet sir !" exclaimed the 
elder of the two, in the kindest accents, 
" thou wilt be better anon. Put thy foot 
forward gallantly, we shall be out of this 
wood straight, and get us to a village where 
we can have fair lodging for the night." 

" Alack ! I feel sinking rapidly," replied 
the other, evidently in extreme faintness. 
" Bear me up strongly, I pray you — the 
ground seemeth to be falling." 

" Prithee heed it not at all — 'tis mere fan- 
tasy," said William Shakspeare, holding him 
as affectionately as a brother. " Courage, 
my young master, our journey will be at an 
end speedily — so we shall have brave resting, 
continue we to proceed. Woe is me, he 
hath swooned !" The speaker stopped in 
great anxiety and pitifulness, for he had 
noted the arm of his companion drop, list- 
lessly off his shoulder, and the head fall so 
droopingly, the youth must have gone to the 
ground had it not been for the care of his 
tender guardian. The first thought of the 
latter was to carry his now helpless fellow- 
traveller— as no time was to be lost in get- 
ting out' of the wood before nightfall — and 
the next minute the young poet was pro- 
ceeding, gallantly bearing the other in his 
arms, with all proper gentleness, till at last 
he was obliged to put him down to rest 
himself. 

His anxiety of mind may*be imagined 
when he beheld by the dim twilight, the 
countenance of his young companion set, as 
it were, in the pale complexion of death, 
with his limbs motionless, and his eyes 
closed. So sad a sight smote him to the 
very heart. What to do he knew not. The 
shadows of the night were gathering fast 
around him, and no habitation near, or sign 
of help at hand. To stay in the wood all 
night without succor were to make certain 
f««r his associate what already looked more 
than possible — his decease ; and yet to get 
out of it he knew no means, for although he 
had gone a great way, still in which ever 



way he looked, nought met his eye but im- 
penetrable dark masses of trees and shrubs. 
As he made the seeming lifeless Bertram 
recline aganst his breast — supporting him 
with one arm to beguile the other of its 
weariness — whilst gazing on the pallid as- 
pect, he was so moved by pity that he scarce 
knew what to be a doing. All at once, as 
he was making the saddest refieetions at the 
poor prospect he had of saving him, he heard 
the faint barking of a dog, to which he gave 
on the instant, so huge a welcome as he had 
rarely given even to what had seemed to him 
the pleasantest of human voices. It afford- 
ed a most sweet assurance of present help, 
for, as it appeared to him, it was a sign of 
some dwelling nigh at hand, or of some per- 
son or persons in the wood, of whom he 
might have the assistance he required. 

Presently he shouted as loud as he could 
to attract the attention of such people as 
were witkin hail, thinking it could not fail 
of drawing them to the spot where he was. 
He listened with extreme anxiousness, and 
a moment after again heard the barking. 
The sound seemed to come from some place 
considerably in advance of him, so taking up 
his burthen more tenderly than ever, he 
proceeded along the path, till he came to 
where another path crossed it, and here he 
shouted again, and listened with a like in- 
tense anxiety. It was true he heard the cry 
of the dog repeated, but he heard no answer- 
ing shout — which was what he most desired ; 
and this gave him some uneasiness. He 
turned the way, where he thought the animal 
and those he belonged to might be found, 
until somewhat weary of what he carried, 
he placed him on his feet as before ; and 
then made the wood resound, he set up so 
main a cry. To his exceeding disappoint- 
ment nought replied to him but the hound, 
and in not much louder tones than at first, 
At this, the idea struck him, that he might 
bring help to his fellow-traveller a famous 
deal more quickly than could he bring him 
where it might be found, so placing of Ber- 
tram upon a mossy bank about a foot or so 
above the path, with his back reclining 
against the broad trunk of a tree, behind 
which he flung his bundle and stick, he 
first of all made the pierdngest halloo he 
could, and when he heard the same reply as 
hitherto, he started off at the top of his speed 
toward the place whence the cry of the dog 
came. By stopping at intervals and repeat- 
ing his shouting, and marking the direction 
of the beast's bark, he soon found to his 
marvellous content it gradually became 
louder to his ear, till it was so distinct tb.6 
animal could not he many yards from him, 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



173 



«^and jet he had heard no human voice, 
nor seen the slightest sign of habitation. 

He had turned down all sorts of paths 
narrow and broad — sometimes forced to 
thrust his way through the crossing branches, 
the trees grew so close, and at others to pick 
his way with more care than speed, the path 
was so crooked and uneven ; at last he came 
out of this thick wood into an open space 
and thought he perceived before him some- 
thing resembling a thick volume of smoke. 
He approached it closely, and discovered 
that it proceeded from a monstrous black 
mass which he speedily recognized as one 
of those heaps of dry underwood that are 
usually kept burning slowly a day or two 
that they may be turned into charcoal. The 
yelping" of the dog was now incessant and 
so close, there was no occasion for more 
shouting. Directly William Shakspeare 
passed the pile of charcoal he beheld both 
the animal and his master standing in the 
door-way of a mud cabin, in which a blaz- 
ing fire of logs threw so great a light, the 
dingy forms of the charcoal-burner and his 
little four-footed companion as black as him- 
self might be seen distinctly. The former 
appeared to be an old man of a very crab- 
bed visage, short of stature, thick-limbed, 
and hump-backed. How he was attired it 
was not easy to say, for his garments seem- 
ed of a color with his skin — as though he 
had been charred all over — but there he 
stood idly at the door of his habitation, and 
doubtless there he had been standing the 
whilst he had heard the shouting of the 
young traveller ; and yet he had never at- 
tempted to give him any answer, or move 
from the spot to show that help was at hand. 

" Why dost make such a bawling, and be 
hanged to thee !" exclaimed the hunch-back 
surlily, as soon as he caught sight of the 
youth, the cur the whilst yelping with all 
his might. 

" I pray you, come with me on the in- 
stant !" said William Shakspeare, with ex- 
treme earnestness. " I have a friend hard 
by like to be dying forthelackof assistance." 

" 'Sdeath ! thou dost not take me to be 
so huge a fool surely," replied the charcoal- 
burner, moving never a whit from his place. 
" Body o' me, 'twould be a fine thing was I 
to take to running about the wood, at this 
late hour, at any body's asking. Get thee 
gone straight, or may be the dog will give 
thee a sharp bite o' the legs, or I a smart 
crack o' the crown." At another time such 
a threat would have cost him dear ; but the 
ether was too wise not to know that vio- 
lence would go no way towards the assist- 
**jg of his fellow-traveller. 



ts I beseech you come to my poor friend's 
help, and I will pay you handsomely !" ex- 
claimed he, with more urgency, " and here 
is some earnest your kind labor shall not go 
unrewarded." So saying, he took from his 
purse a couple of silver groats, which he 
placed in the old fellow's hand. The sight 
of the purse and the touch of the money, as 
had been anticipated, had an instantaneous 
effect. 

" Prithee tell me, good sir, where your 
friend may be found, and I will give him 
what help I can without fail," answered the 
hunch-back, putting his foot forward very 
readily ; and then cried out angrily to his 
yelping cur, to whom he gave a slight kick, 
" a murrain on thee — stay thy rude noise 
how darest thou bark at so worthy a per 
son !" Whereof the consequence was, that 
in a very few minutes the whole three were 
trudging amicably together in search of the 
helpless Bertram. Young Shakspeare soon 
became somewhat bewildered as to the path 
he should follow, he having in his speed 
taken no great note of the right one ; so he 
went up one and down another, without ex- 
actly knowing he was going his proper way 
or not. Nevertheless, after proceeding a 
considerable distance with no Drofit, he be- 
gan to have a suspicion he had come in a 
wrong direction, and hinted as much to the 
charcoal-burner, which brought them to a 
full stop, and a consultation as to what was 
best to be done. 

" Didst heed nothing anigh the place you 
left your friend ?" inquired the hunch-back. 
" Nothing notable in the tree, or in the place 
close upon it, by which you might distin- 
guish it again ?" 

" As I remember there was something," 
replied the other; "I perceived a number 
of different small animals — I know not of 
what sort, for I could not distinguish them — 
hanging from the tree's branches." 

" Body o' me !" exclaimed the charcoal- 
burner, in a sort of famous surprise, " that 
be the Tyburn oak, as we call it in these 
parts, for 'tis used by the keepers as a gib- 
bet, upon which they do execution upon all 
manner of weasles, pole-cats, foxes, owls, 
shrikes, and other wild destructive things 
that are caught in traps, set in different parts 
of these woods ; and it lies down in Dead 
Man's Hollow, at least a full mile from this. 
Had you turned to the left instead of to the 
right, when starting from my cot, we had 
reached it long since." 

For this mistake there was no remedy but 
to retrace their steps, which they did with 
as much speed as they could, — William 
Shakspeare somewhat uneasy at having left 



174 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



his young companion for so long a time, and 
his guide in an eager humor to be touching 
some more of the other's money. In due 
vime they arrived at the tree, the same tree 
out of all contradiction from which the lat- 
ter had started in pursuit of assistance for 
his friend ; for there lay behind it the bun- 
ble and the stick he had thrown there, but 
of Bertram there was no sign. This put 
him in a fearful perplexity. He thought, 
perchance, on returning to consciousness, 
and finding himself, as he might think, 
abandoned, the youth had strayed away in 
hopes of discovering a path that led out of 
the wood ; and this idea put him in huge 
discomfort ; for, as it appeared to him, the 
young stranger was almost sure to be lost 
in the numberless different paths that led 
here and there in all directions. He pres- 
ently fell to acquainting the hunch-back 
with his thoughts. 

" I doubt that, master," replied the char- 
coal-burner ; " an' he were in such a strait 
as you have said, methinks it must needs be 
he could have been in no case for further 
journeying. I am more apt to think he hath 
been moved by other persons." 

" How can that be ?" inquired the other. 
" I saw no one in the wood but ourselves." 

" That might be, master," said the hunch- 
back ; " but at this late hour, when the 
place seemeth to be deserted of every one. 
iie Lord Urban, whose property it is, as 
well as great part of the surrounding coun- 
try, wandereth alone in it for hours toge- 
ther, and 'tis like enough my lord hath fal- 
len on your friend in his rambles, and see- 
ing how much he wanted immediate suc- 
cor, as you have said, hath borne him to his 
own fair mansion, scarce half a mile from 
this place." 

"It may be," observed the young traveller, 
considering the probability of what had just 
been advanced ; " but who is this Lord Ur- 
ban, for I should be glad to know if my 
friend is in safe hands ?" 

" Be assured he cannot be better off," an- 
swered the hunch-back, " and if you will 
with me, and share the shelter and the cheer 
of my cot, I will tell you whatever you may 
require concerning of him, and in the morn- 
ing direct you the nighest way to his man- 
sion." 

Believing that nothing more desirable 
could be done, William Shakspeare assented 
cheerfully to the charcoal-burner's proposal, 
on condition that they should previously 
search about where they were, to see if the 
lost youth had lingered in the neighborhood. 
Finding nothing of him, they then bent their 
steps towards the mud cot, and in a few 



minutes entered it together. The new 
comer found it the most primitive habitation 
he had ever been in, in all his days, there 
being no windows to it, the ground consti- 
tuting the floor, in the centre of which was 
a large fire burning, which the hunch-back 
quickly replenished with fresh logs. The 
smoke had no other way of exit but through 
the open door, and therefore gave a most 
dingy coat to the whole interior. On the 
fire was a sort of kettle swung. A foot of 
two from it was a table and chair, at tho 
other side a kind of bed, made of branches 
of green broom, with a log of wood by way 
of pillow, and in the corner a rude cup- 
board; beside which there were in other 
parts of this chamber divers woodman's 
tools, and spades, gins, and other instru- 
ments. Against one part of the wall was a 
hare hanging, and nearly opposite a leather 
jerkin. 

The charcoal-burner wiped the chair for 
his visitor, who in honest truth was glad to 
find such resting, did the same office for the 
table, and presently placed on it, with tren- 
chers, knives, latten spoons, and other neces- 
saries, a smoking dish of stewed coneys, 
that smelt so savory, the young traveller did 
not require much pressing to induce him to 
have at them ; and his companion, making 
himself a stool out of a tall log, eat and 
drank with such extreme heartiness, it could 
not fail being a provocation of itself ; but 
the edge of the other's appetite was sharp 
enough without such setting, in consequence 
of a long and tiresome journey, and he made 
as good a meal as he had done any "day of 
his life before. The old fellow then gossip- 
ped about his lord sundry marvellous stories, 
till the other gave a hint he would be glad 
of getting some sleep. 

" If you can bring yourself to accept of 
such poor lying as I have, 'tis at your com- 
mandment," replied the charcoal-burner, 
pointing to the bed of broom-branches at the 
other side of the fire. 

" Truly, I think it as pleasant a couch, 
for one as weary as am I, as a king's bed," 
answered the other ; " but how mean you to 
take your sleep ? I like not depriving you 
of your customary comfort." 

" Heed me not, master. I can sleep on a 
chair as fast as I can anywhere," said the 
old fellow. Whereupon, his young compan-- 
ion presently went, and threw himself upon 
the charcoal-burner's bed, and the other sat 
himself in the chair, and in a few minutes 
it appeared as if both were in as sound 
sleeping as they could well have. But as 
regards the hunch-back, his slumber was 
but feigned. He T ound he could get no rest 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



175 



for thinking of the young stranger's purse, 
with a greedy longing to make it his own, 
and yet he c®uld not resolve himself into at- 
tempting to deprive him of it. He was 
striving in his mind, to find some way by 
which he might do so in perfect security. 
If he took it privily as he slept, he might dis- 
cover the loss on waking, and could not fail 
of suspecting the robber, and would straight- 
way demand its restitution, or might speed 
to the Lord Urban's where he was bound as 
he said, and acquaint some of them there 
with his having been so plundered, by which 
speedy punishment was likely to follow. 
This suited the charcoal-burner not at all. 
Still, he was intent upon having the money 
— for the demon of covetousness had a fast 
hold on him — but hours passed without his 
coming to any determination. At last, an 
idea was started in him, that appeared to 
give him the purse, and provide against all 
dreaded consequences ; yet, such was the 
character of this idea, that as soon as it was 
well conceived of him, he gazed stealthily 
round the chamber, to note if any were nigh 
enough to get note of it. Assured that none 
were within the cabin save the stranger, 
and that, as his breathing declared, he was 
in a deep sleep, the hunch-back quietly rose 
from his seat, and cautiously picking some- 
thing from a corner, stole with the noiseless 
step of a cat, out of the place. 

The youthful Shakspeare had got himself 
into a famous dream. He fancied he was 
in a fierce battle, in company with his once 
notable kind friends the two young knights, 
wherein, after much brave fighting on his 
part, he had been overthrown, and lay so sore 
wounded he could not move. He heard the 
battle raging around him — the clashing of 
the swords, the blows of the curtle-axes, the 
cries of the combatants, and the groans of 
the wounded, and these so nigh, it seemed 
plain he should be crushed to death in the 
melee, still he had no power of moving, 
strove he ever so ; and this horrible dread so 
increased, that upon a sudden rush of the 
battle towards him so tumultuously it was 
manifest his doom was sealed, divers fell so 
heavily upon him, he started at the shock 
and awoke. He could still hear the clash- 
ing of the swords though his eyes were wide 
open ; but gradually he became conscious, 
as he looked about him, he had been in a 
dream, and he remembered where he was 
lying. The fire in the centre of the hovel 
was now burning low, so as to throw an in- 
distinct lurid light about the place — the 
dreamer looked for his host ; but there was 
the table, with the supper things still un- 
cleared away, and there the chair, in which 



he had last seen the charcoal-burner, reposing 
himself for his last night's rest, bare of a 
tenant ; nor did he appear to be anywhere 
in the cabin. At this discovery, the dream- 
er marvelled somewhat. As he listened 
more attentively, his quick sense of hearing 
could plainly distinguish, that what he had 
taken to be the noise of swords clashing to- 
gether, was the sharpening of some weapon 
with a stone. Whereupon, he fell into a 
greater wonder than before. It seemed 
strange the hunch-back should want to be 
sharpening of anything at that hour. On 
a sudden he called to mind the covetous 
looks of the old fellow whenever he glanced 
at his purse, and then he had some suspi- 
cions the other meant him no good. 

In a moment he reached down the old 
jerkin that was hanging on the wall, and 
with it covered the log of wood that had 
served for a stool, which he laid in the exact 
place in which he had been recently lying, 
keeping himself back in the deep shadow, 
for the purpose of watching to note whether 
his suspicions were well or ill-grounded. 
Presently, he beheld the charcoal-burner 
with a very devilish visage, as it appeared 
by the light of the fire cast upon it, enter 
the hovel, and stealthily approach his bed, 
with a woodman's bill in his hand, the edge 
of which he was feeling with his thumb, 
mayhap to note if it was sharp enough for 
his purpose. In the mind of the youthful 
Shakspeare, there now could not be a doubt 
of the old fellow's murderous intentions. 
Indeed the eager, cautious, fiend-like look he 
had as he crept along with his weapon, was 
sufficient evidence of the deadliness of his 
object. The supposed sleeper lay still as 
death close against the wall, and that portion 
of the chamoer being fartherest from the 
fire, it was so dark no object could be seen, 
and about the bed of broom, there was only 
so much light as to see forms without clear- 
ly distinguishing them. 

The hunch-back approached the bed 
closely. He stopped as he got nigh to the 
top of it. At this, William Shakspeare was 
in some apprehension the other would spy 
the cheat, and was preparing himself for a 
desperate conflict, if such should be the case. 
However, presently, he beheld his treach- 
erous host lift his weapon above his head, 
and the next moment it came down with such 
monstrous force, it cut through the jerkin, 
and stuck firm in the log beneath. Then 
the pretended sleeper sprung from his con- 
cealment, but not in time to secure the vil- 
lain, who, the instant he heard the rustling 
of his intended victim as he rose from hia 
hiding, saw clearly enough he had been 



176 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



foiled in his murderous purpose, and with 
a muttered execration rushed from the hovel 
at the top of his speed, pursued by his dog, 
who had been a curious spectator of the 
whole scene. The other did not think it ad- 
visable to follow them into the intricacies 
of the wood at such a time, so he first pul- 
led out the bill from the log, the which took 
all his strength to do, it was buried so deep 
in the wood, meaning to use it in his own 
defence should there be occasion ; then 
made the fire burn bravely, resolving to wait 
where he was till daylight. 

Finding himself in no way molested after 
some time, he went to the door and looked 
out. The heap of charcoal was still smok- 
ing. All around lay the spreading trees, 
and above, the cold grey sky, such as it ap- 
peareth in the early morning. The stillness 
was most profound ; but this lasted only a 
brief while. Presently, the wind came 
sweeping among the leaves, sighing heavily 
as if in a great weariness, and making a 
notable trembling of all the tender green 
things it passed over, as if they liked not the 
approach of such a visitor. It died away, 
and all was still again. Again it rushed 
onward in its broad path with the like con- 
sequences, and anon, the whole wood was 
hushed into a deep sleep : and so it continued. 
After an hour or so of these changes, ob- 
served by the young poet with such pleasure 
as none but minds like his, so perfectly at- 
tuned to the sweet harmonies of nature, can 
be familiar with, on a sudden, he heard a slight 
chirping ; then another in a different direc- 
tion, and answering to that a third, and ere 
another minute had passed, there was so 
goodly a chorus of chirpings, whistling, 
warbling, and all manner of such choice 
singing, from the whole neighborhood, as was 
quite ravishing to hear. Then numberless 
small birds, of different hues, were seen 
busily whetting of their beaks against the 
tiny twigs, or hopping in and out amid the 
branches, or descending to the ground, feed- 
ing on such palatable things as they could 
find ; and in noting of their different songs, 
their pretty ways, and their soft glossy plu- 
mage, the youthful Shakspeare forgot all 
thoughts of preparing himself against threat- 
ened murder. Indeed, he could not enter- 
tain any idea of violence amongst such 
pleasant happiness as now surrounded him. 
After enjoying of this fair scene for some 
time, and impressed with the conviction the 
charcoal-burner had no mind to return, fear- 
ing to be punished for his villainy, the young 
traveller once more took to his bundle and 
stick, and ventured out of the hovel, in the 
txpectation of meeting some one or another 



coming to his work, who would be his guiae 
to the Lord Urban's mansion, in case he 
should not be able to find it by following the 
direction given by the murderous hunch-back 
the preceding night. He proceeded on his 
path, bent upon ascertaining as well as he 
could how his young friend had fared, and 
then continuing his journey as speedily as 
he might. He met nothing, save the proper 
denizens of the wood, coneys, hares, and 
sundry different sorts of birds, who speedily 
took themselves elsewhere at his approach, 
till he turned the corner of the path ; and 
then he stopped suddenly, for he beheld a 
scene, the like of which he had never wit- 
nessed before. Opposite him, leaning against 
a tree, stood a tall man, apparently of some 
fifty years or so, negligently clothed in 
handsome apparelling. His countenance 
was the most woe-begone he had ever seen, 
pale, haggard, and care-worn, with misery 
written in every line ; notwithstanding which 
there was something so truly noble in his 
features, that the grief they expressed seem- 
ed as though exalted beyond the reach of 
ordinary sympathy. His arm resting against 
the tree afforded a support for his head, in 
which position he had placed himself, with 
his eyes fixed upon the ground, and ever 
and anon, giving of such groans and deep 
sighs as were exceeding pitiful to hear. 
Presently he moved, clasped his hands forci- 
bly together, and lifted up his eyes to the 
sky with a look so heart-rending, he who 
alone saw it could never forget it. Sorrow 
in any, appealeth to the heart of the specta- 
tor ; but when the majesty of manhood put- 
teth on its sad livery, there is no such 
moving sight in the whole world. 

The stranger then took to walking two or 
three paces, to and fro, in the path with his 
eyes fixed on the ground, and his aspect 
bearing the signs of a consuming grief. 
Again he stopped — and the expression of his 
countenance changed greatly — it bore a ter- 
rible suspiciousness ; and then anger, scorn, 
and hatred followed each other rapidly. 

"Infamous wretch!" exclaimed he, in a 
voice so hollow and broken, it did not appear 
to belong to a living creature ; " her punish- 
ment hath been as intolerable as her crime ! 
'Tis fit — 'tis fit such guilt should be so vis- 
ited. A most just judgment — a proper 
vengeance." At this he walked about as 
before, and soon returned to the more quiet 
sadness he had at first exhibited ; and then 
he groaned, and smote his breast with his 
clenched fist, and shook his head most woe- 
fully, and muttered something which could 
not be heard. The youthful Shakspeare ( 
with a natural delicacy, liking not to be seen 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



171 



taking note of the stranger's actions, was 
turning away, when he was discovered. 

" Ah, fellow, what dost here ?" angrily 
cried the distracted gentleman, rushing upon 
him with the speed of a young deer ; and 
then placing himself in his path, appeared 
to examine him with a severe scrutiny. A 
glance seemed to suffice, for the expression 
of his features changed instantly ; and he 
spoke in a gentler voice, " Heed not any- 
thing you may have heard," said he, putting 
his hand on the youth's shoulder. " I am 
subject to strange fits — and I rave about I 
know not what. I pray you, think not 
hardly of me, if you have listened to aught 
to my disadvantage." And then he took the 
other tenderly by the hand as if he was an 
especial friend, and gazed in his face in such 
a manner as might one who would show in 
his looks his affectionate regard of a com- 
panion he talked with. 

" Be assured I heard nothing I could place 
to your discredit," replied the young poet, 
much moved at the other's strange way of 
addressing him. " And what I did hear, I 
came on accidentally, and listened to from 
sympathy rather than curiousness." 

" Ah ! doubtless !" said the earl, hurriedly. 
" But how came you in this place so early ? 
— it is not usual to be travelling at such an 
hour." 

William Shakspeare then spoke of his 
last night's adventures ; to which the other 
listened with singular . curiousness ac- 
knowledging himself to be the Lord Urban, 
and that it was he who had removed the 
helpless Bertram, finding him in the case he 
was — asking many questions about him, and 
at last inviting his new acquaintace to see 
him at the house where he lay. To this 
the other gladly assenting, these two pro- 
ceeded there together. The mansion was 
the largest and fairest to look at William 
Shakspeare had seen, save only Kenilworth 
Castle, and it lay in the centre of a noble 
park. As they approached it they came 
upon several parties of men — perchance 
going to their labor of the day — all of whom 
did the earl a notable reverence, that he ac- 
knowledged with a suitable graciousness ; 
soon after which the young traveller follow- 
er his noble guide, by a private entrance, 
»nto the interior of that stately dwelling. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

I was wery of wandering, and went me to rest, 
Under a brode banke, by a bourne side, 
And as I lay and lened, and loked on the water, 
I slombered into a sleeping, it swyzed so mery. 
The Vision of Pierce Plowman. 

Clown. What hast here ? ballads ? 
Mopsa. Pray now sing some ! I love a ballad 
in print, o' life, 
For then we are sure they are true. 
Auto. Will you buy any tape, 
Or lace for your cape, 
My dainty duck my dear-a? 

Shakspeare. 

Borach. Tush ! I may as well say the fool's 
the fool. But see'st thou not what a deformed 
thief this fashion is ] 

Watch. 1 know that Deformed : he has been 
a vile thief this seven year : he goes up and down 
like a gentleman. 1 remember his name. 

Ibeo. 

When William Shakspeare left his fel- 
low traveller, it was with unfeigned regret to 
part with one for whom, as it seemed, he 
had conceived so great a liking ; but it was 
also with a singular satisfaction on his part 
that the youth had fallen into such good 
hands. Bertram had resolved to stay where 
he was, partly from having been much pres- 
sed to do so by the Lord Urban, who had 
used him exceeding civilly; and in some 
measure, because he felt quite unable to at- 
tempt any further travel, he was in so help- 
less weak a state. Having received, from 
divers of the earl's serving men, the neces- 
sary directions for pursuing his way, and 
having not only refreshed himself famously, 
but been liberally provided with a prodigal 
store of choice eating and drinking for his 
comfort on the road, the young traveller trudg- 
ed manfully on pursuing of his journey. 

It chanced, after he had walked till he 
was getting to be tired, he came to a brook 
side which murmured very pleasantly, and 
sitting himself down on the grass, under an 
alder tree, he presently fell to making a 
meal of the victual he had; the which 
pleased him infinitely, for the meat was of 
the best, and though he had no sauce save 
his own hunger, that latter gave so sweet a 
relish no other was wanting ; and then he 
drew a flask of wine from under his doublet, 
and took a fair draught of it, which also 
gave him wonderful content. Now, whether 
it was he had had but little sleep many 
nights, or whether it was the strength of 
the wine got into his head, or the murmur- 
ing of the brook made him drowsy, I know 
not ; but after yawning several times most 



178 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



unequivocally, and stretching his arms out. 
and showing other signs of oppressive 
weariness, presently he lay his strength on 
the grass, with the bundle under his head, 
and the stick in his hand, and in a few 
minutes was in the enjoyment of as sweet a 
slumber as he had known a long time. 

But mayhap it was the pleasant dream 
which then visited him that gave his sleep 
sucn absolute pleasantness; for, truly, it 
was as delectable a dream as sleep ever pro- 
duced — though it was made up of all man- 
ner of strange pageants and unheard of 
famous marvels. Sometimes it took the 
shape of a goodly theatre rilled with a noble 
company, and he a player whose very pre- 
sence made the whole place to resound with 
plaudits — anon he had writ a play to be 
played before the Queen's Majesty and the 
great lords and ladies of her court ; and he 
received most bountiful commendation from 
such glorious audience : — and then he would 
be writing of poems that should be so liked 
of all persons of worship, there should 
scarce be anything in such esteem. And 
so the dream went on in divers other scenes 
of a like sort, as if there could be no end to 
the greatness they promised him ; and, in 
the end, there danced before his eyes the 
same pretty company of fair dancers, sing- 
ers, and revellers, as had used to haunt his 
slumbers in his younger days ; and one 
more delicately apparelled than the rest, and 
of surpassing beauty, beckoned him onward 
as she flitted gracefully before him, singing 
c' some words of exquisite hopeful meaning. 
At this he woke suddenly, and the bright 
visions changed into a fair landscape — the 
sweet music was turned to the faint hum- 
ming of the water ; and the press of tiny 
' shapes, in their rare bravery, changed to 
innumerable small insects that were skim- 
ming the surface of the brook. The sleeper 
started from his position, and after refresh- 
ing himself by laving of his face in the- 
water, as he lay down on the bank, he 
shouldered his little burthen, and continued 
his journey in a gayer humor than he had 
been in since its commencement. He now 
more than ever took to the laying of plans 
and drawing out of schemes for his ad- 
vancement ; and the first and most notable 
of these was to make the best of his way to 
London, to find out the elder Burbage, who 
was the chief of a company of players there, 
and offer himself to be of his company ; the 
which he doubted not would be allowed, 
Burbage having already knowledge of his 
fitness for to be a player, having witnessed 
his first essay when he so readily undertook 
to fill the post of the sick boy. 



On entering a town on market day, and 
having passed long lines of pens for sheep 
and pigs, and droves of cattle — rude carts 
laden with sacks of grain, piles of cheese 
heaped up in the open place, along side of 
baskets of eggs, poultry, and butter, with 
here a show perchance of a wild Indian — 
there a famous doctor on a platform, offering 
to cure all diseases — in another spot the 
notablest conjuror and astrologer in the 
whole world, surrounded by gaping crowds 
of farmers, yeomen, and rustical sort of 
people — and elsewhere a harper singing of 
old ballads in a circle of well pleased listen- 
ers of both sexes, he was stopped by a throng 
of persons of all ages and conditions, who 
seemed to be laughing very merrily at the 
rivalry of two travelling chapmen, seeking 
by dint of volubleness of tongue and low 
humor to get off their wares. The one was 
an amazing red-nosed old fellow, with one 
eye, but there was in it so droll a twinkle, 
and it seemed so active withal, it was evi- 
dent it grieved not for the loss of its partner. 
He had got with him a handful of ballads 
and broad sheets, and a bundle at his back, 
which he was striving all his craft of tongue 
to dispose of. The other was a pedlar — a 
rare rogue, of a most facetious vein, who 
whilst in serious commendation of his wares 
failed not to utter a sly jest at his rival 
He had his .pack opened before him, dis» 
playing all manner of ribbons and trinkets, 
which he showed as openly as he could, 
and praised as though nothing half so good 
could be had anywhere. 

" Out with your pennies, my masters !" 
cried the ballad-monger. " Here is a choice 
time for spending. Delicate ballads ! Rare 
ballads, new and old! Here is one of an 
amorous turnspit who got so madly in love 
with his master's daughter, he forgot his 
proper duty to that extreme, he basted him- 
self instead of the meat. It was sworn be- 
fore the mayor he never came to his right 
senses till the cook run a knife into him to 
see if he was done. No history so true. 
Here is another of a merry apprentice, who 
kissed all the women, beat all the watch, 
and hanged all the cats within five miles of 
him, and how he afterwards became the 
powerfulest merchant in the world. All 
writ down in an especial edifying manner for 
the instruction of young, persons. Here is 
the dialogue of the Oxford scholar, and the 
tanner of Woodstock, concerning of woman, 
whether she be fish, flesh, or fowl. Full of 
most delectable fine argument and deep 
learning. Buy, my masters, buy ! Xerer 
had I such prodigal penny-worths. Most 
true ballads — only happened t'other day was 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



179 



a month. I sal no copper brooches for 

fold. Here are no glass beads to pass for 
ne stones. I seek not to cozen you with 
pewter for silver. These are ballads, my 
masters — none so good have been writ this 
hundred ' year — choice for singing — choice 
for reading, and choice for sticking against 
the cupboard door." 

" Here is Paris thread of the best," said 
the pedlar. " Here are ribbons for holiday 
wear, that when given to a comely damsel, 
force her to be so desperate after the giver, 
he shall marry her in a week. Here are 
garters so exquisitely fashioned, they make 
a neat ankle of so ravishing a shape, not an 
eye shall gaze on it without being lost in 
love' for the owner. Here are pins and 
needles warranted to prick none, save those 
they run into. Here are leather purses that 
have been charmed by a conjuror, so that 
they have the virtue to double whatever 
money they shall hold. Here is famous 
goldsmith's work in wedding-rings of metal 
that cannot be matched for sterlingness, and 
are moreover known to keep all wives true 
to their husbands, and to hold them so obe- 
dient withal, they shall take a cudgelling or 
a kissing with a like good will. Here are 
locks for hair — brooches and ear-rings, gar- 
nished with stones beyond all price — neck- 
laces and chains from beyond the seas, and 
all so marvellous cheap they should be a 
bargain at thrice what I will sell them for. 
All true lovers come to me, I will insure 
you your desires at a small cost. All gener- 
ous good husbands now is your time to win 
your wives to honest affectionateness. I am 
no dealer in monstrous dull lies that would 
make a dead man stir in his grave the hear 
of such roguery. Here is no poor foolish 
stuff put into measure to £heat simple per- 
sons into a laugh. I have my eyes about 
me, and believe others not to be so blind as 
some that take but a half look at things do 
fancy. Judge for yourselves. Note how 
excellent are my wares. Whatever you 
lack you shall have of such fineness and at 
so cheap a rate as you can never have 
again.' Girdles, belts, points, laces, gloves, 
kerchiefs, spoons, knives, spurs, scissors, 
thimbles, and all other things whatsoever, 
made so well and fast, they shall last till 
you die, and after that serve you as long as 
you may have use for them." 

In this strain the two continued, to the 
huge entertainment of the assembled rustics, 
who greedily bought of each, and laughed 
loudly at their sly allusions to the other's 
efforts to cheat them. The young traveller 
passed on as soon as he could — somewhat 
amused at the droll rogueiy of those merry 



knaves, till he came to another crowd about 
the town-crier, who had just made the whole 
neighborhood resound with the clamor of 
his bell, causing persons to throng around 
him from all parts. William Shakspeare 
could only get near enough to hear a word 
or so that was bawled louder than the rest, 
so he asked of a staid simple-looking man 
at his elbow, what it meant. 

" It meaneth that the Queen of Scots 
hath escaped," replied he, " and hue and 
cry hath been made for her from town to 
town, and from tithing to tithing. And, 
moreover, that London hath been set on fire, 
and that the papists are rising in all parts, 
bidding of every man to get himself in ar- 
mor, in readiness to do battle in defence of 
the Queen Elizabeth, and to search for and 
seize on the false Queen of Scots wherever 
she may be found." 

This intelligence surprised the young tra- 
veller exceedingly, and amongst the market 
people it caused a singular commotion, for 
presently they all broke up into little knots 
discoursing of no other matter — some alarm- 
ed — some valiant — some threatening, and 
every one talking or seeking to talk of the 
escaped queen, the fire, and the papists. 
William Shakspeare was proceeding on his 
way as speedily as he could, marvelling at 
what he had heard, when of a sudden he 
found himself seized firmly, and turning 
round beheld the person he just spoke to, 
with his face flushed as though in some ex- 
traordinary excitement, and his whole frame 
in such a tremble as if he was taken with a 
sudden ague. 

" I charge you to surrender yourself 
peaceably," exclaimed he to his astonished 
prisoner. 

" For what cause I pray you ?" inquired 
the latter. 

" I arrest you as a false traitor and hor- 
rible malefactor against the queen's high- 
ness, our sovereign lady, whose poor con- 
stable I am," replied the other, seeming in 
terrible fear lest he should escape. " Ask 
of me no questions, but come straight before 
his worship the mayor — at your deadly 
peril." 

" I assure you I have done no offence — 
there must be some mistake in this*" said 
his companion. 

" An' you seek to breed a bate by any 
show of false words, I will call on true men 
to bear you along forcibly," added the con- 
stable. Believing both resistance and argu- 
ments would be useless, the prisoner allowed 
himself to be led by the person who had de- 
tained him, followed by a throng of the curi- 
ous, of whom many, especially the women, 



180 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



grieved to see so handsome a youth in such 
custody. In a few minutes he found him- 
self at the end of a long chamber, with a 
portly looking fellow, manifestly a miller by 
the flour with which his garments were 
covered, that could be seen under his may- 
or's gown — sitting at the top of a table, in 
close and earnest conversation with a butch- 
er on one side of him, and a vintner on the 
other, and then dictating to a bull-headed 
sturdy knave in the common dress of a 
smith. 

" Silence in the court !" cried the miller, 
the moment the constable opened his mouth 
to make his accusation, and the mayor spoke 
so commandingly, the other contented him- 
self with keeping fast hold of his prisoner ; 
and seeming in a wonderful anxiousness 
and solicitude. It appeared that these wor- 
thies were the chief officers of the corpora- 
tion, and they were about sending of a letter 
to the queen's council concerning of the 
important intelligence of which the reader is 
acquainted, saying what they have done, 
and asking what further they should do. 
Everything was first debated betwixt the 
miller, the butcher, and the vintner, who ap- 
peared to be as thoroughly ignorant of proper 
forms of speech in which to express them- 
selves, as any three persons could ; and yet 
they spoke as confidently as if they con- 
sidered themselves amongst the sages of the 
land. 

" Now, Alderman Hobnail, read what hath 
been writ, and our memories shall hold it 
the better," said the mayor, whereupon the 
scribe took the paper in his hand, and slowly, 
as if he could make out his own writing 
with some difficulty, he read what fol- 
lows : — 

" An' it please you, right honorables, we 
have had a certain hue and cry arrive here, 
charging of us to make diligent searchings 
in all manner of our lanes and alleys, high- 
ways and byeways, for the Queen of Scots, 
who is fled ; likewise of her majesty's city 
of London, by the enemies set on fire ; 
whereby in great haste we have got ready 
our men and armor, with such artillery as 
we have, on pain of death, as by the pre- 
cept we were commanded ; and have charged 
divers of our constables to seek out and 
apprehend the said Queen of Scots, if so be 
she is lurking in our township ; but as yet 
we have gained no intelligence she hath 
ventured herself into these parts — " 

" Please your worships, the Queen of 
Scots is here in my safe custody !" exclaimed 
the constable, who found it utterly impos- 
sible to withhold any longer the intelligence 
of the important capture he imagined he had 



made. At hearing this, the mayor and 
alderman started from their seats in such 
amazement as they had never shown before ; 
but their surprise was far exceeded by that 
of the prisoner, who at last could not help 
laughing outright. " Please your worship 
the fact be manifest. This person came up 
to me, whilst the crier was giving out the 
intelligence of the Queen of Scots' escape, 
and not hearing what Master Giles said, he 
having a pestilent hoarseness, asked of me 
what he was saying ; and on the instant I 
told him — her I should say — he — she I mean 
— took himself, or rather herself, off with 
the design of escape, as hastily as might be. 
Whereupon I felt assured he — she I should 
say — was no other than this escaped queen ; 
for, as I remember, the Queen of Scots is 
said to be fair, so is this person — and in no 
way deformed, which tallies with this person 
to a hair — and of a well favored counten- 
ance, the which this person hath also ; and 
in huge trouble and anxiousness lest he — 
she should escape, I made him — her I mean, 
my prisoner, and have herewith brought him 
— her I should say — into your worship's 
presence, to be further done with as your 
worships shall think fittest." 

The whole assembly seemed in so mon- 
strous a marvel, they appeared as if they 
could do nothing but stare at the supposed 
queen. 

" Surely this person looketh but little like 
a woman," observed the mayor at last ; at 
which the vintner very pithily remarked, 
there were divers of that sex who looked 
not what they passed for ; and the butcher 
added, with a like shrewdness, it was well 
known of many women, that on an occasion 
they could enact the man so much to the 
life, their husbands could not do it half so 
well. Hearing these fine arguments, the 
miller looked somewhat puzzled, and again 
the constable put in sundry other reasons of 
his for coming to the conclusion he had — 
all which, with his singular confusion of 
he's and she's which marked his discourse, 
appeared to afford infinite diversion to the 
suspected Queen of Scots. Presently, being 
called upon to give an account of himself, 
the latter strove to convince the worthies of 
the corporation of the ridiculous blunder of 
the constable, by pointing to his mustache, 
saying as gravely as he could, he never 
knew that formed any part of the escaped 
queen's countenance ; ,and then uncovered 
his head to show how different his hair was 
to a woman's ; but this only led to a con- 
sultation of the mayor with his chief advi- 
sers, and hearing something about empanel? 
ling a jury of matrons, the young traveller 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



18! 



immediately lore open his doublet, and put 
beyond a doubt — to the horrible disappoint- 
ment of the constable — that he was neither 
her highness of Scotland, nor woman of any 
kind. After which, he made such choice 
jests of the affair, that he set the whole cor- 
poration laughing right heartily, and was 
dismissed from custody, amid the merry 
congratulations of every one present, save 
only Master Constable, against whom, his 
doings of that day, furnished his acquain- 
tance with a continual jest. 

William Shakspeare got out of the town 
without further molestation ; and, on the 
road, coming up to a heavily laden waggon, 
drawn by six horses, he made a bargain with 
the waggoner to take him to Oxford. On 
getting into the vehicle, lie nearly placed 
himself in the lap of an old lady there seated, 
in consequence of his not seeing clearly, 
the interior was so dark ; but he excused 
himself so gracefully, that he soon got to be 
on exceeding friendly terms with her. As 
soon as his eyes became more used to the 
darkness, he began to make out the figures 
of his fellow-travellers. First there was the 
old lady, a notable motherly sort of dame, 
going to London to visit her daughter. She 
was marvellous social, talking of her affairs 
as if each one present was her intimate dear 
friend and gossip of long standing, although 
she had seen none before she joined them in 
the waggon. 

Next to her was a sickly looking boy, 
going with his mother, who seemed to hold 
him very tenderly, to get advice of the nota- 
blest chururgions of London for his ailments. 
These spoke but little, and only in a few 
whispers one to another. Beside these were 
two young Oxford scholars, keeping up a 
continual arguing on all manner of subjects, 
as if they could not live a minute without 
showing of their skill in logic, yet neither 
could convert the other to his opinion, for 
each debated the more strongly, the more 
closely he was combatted. There was but one 
more of the party, and he was a stout glover 
from Woodstock, who had been staying with 
some friends in Wales. He was a great 
devourer of news, and was no less desirous 
of playing the intelligencer himself, than he 
was to listen to the news of another. The 
young traveller was soon seized on by the 
old dame going to London, and the stout 
glover of Woodstock, as a listener for one, 
and an intelligencer for the other. 

" By my troth, I shall be right glad to get 
to my journey's end," said the former ; " as 
1 told my maid Lettice the very morning I 
•tarted ; and she said she had a monstrous 
longing to be of my company, so that she 



might see London streets paved with gold, 
and to get but a glimpse of the queen's 
glorious majesty of whom she had heard 
such marvels ; but my husband, who loveth 
a jest dearly, said that she was in no condi- 
tion to have her longing gratified, and must 
first be married a decent time ere she should 
speak of such things. Indeed, my husband 
hath an exceeding merry humor ; but he 
meaneth no harm by it to man, woman, or 
child, I promise you. I was but a girl when 
he took me to wife. I remember the day as 
well as though it were but yesterday ; and 
in honest truth it will be just forty years 
come Candlemas. Ah ! I little thought then 
I should ever be taking a long journey to 
see a daughter of mine own settled in Barbi- 
can, whose husband is so highly related he 
hath a brother, whose wife is first cousin to 
my lord Mayor ! Ay, I thought no more of 
it than could an unborn babe. But none 
can foresee what great things shall come to 
pass." 

" Know you any news, good sir ? in- 
quired the glover, who had been waiting im- 
patiently to put that question for some 
minutes. The young traveller acquainted him 
with what he had heard in the town he 
lately left, not forgetting the droll blunder 
of the constable in taking him to be the es- 
caped Queen of Scots, to which his com- 
panion listened with prodigious interest, as 
no news could, in his conceit, be so credible 
as that which is given by the party who had 
been an actor in it. 

" Ha !" exclaimed the Woodstock man, 
" there have been continual bruits of the 
Queen of Scots escaping, ever since she hath 
been a close prisoner. Perchance it is like 
enough to happen. I did myself hear of a 
horrible conspiracy she had entered into to 
let in the Spaniards and destroy all the pro- 
testants in the kingdom. Truly she is a 
most pestilent base woman. Yet know I for 
certain, that my Lord of Shrewsbury's deal- 
ings with her have not been honest. Indeed, 
I could tell of a certain christening of which 
I have had the minutest particulars — secret 
though it was. But of such scandals about 
her there is so famous a plenty, that if but 
one half be true, it maketh the other half 
credible." 

" My husband, as I remember told me she 
was a horrible papist," said the old dame ; 
" and I heard worthy master curate declare, 
after service, the very Sunday before I left, 
she must needs be a most wicked wretch, 
else would she forswear all toleration of such 
villainy : and as fair a preacher is he as 
you shall find in any pulpit ; and taketh his 
dinner with us some twice at least in. tht 



18S 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



week, and always commendeth my skill in 
cookery ; and, as iie hath himself told me, 
esteemeth my husband as the goodliest 
Christian-man he hath ever known ; and 
myself as the notablest perfect housewife in 
the whole parish." 

" Heard you any fresh matters in Scot- 
land ?" asked the glover. " Are the French 
busy there in any new intrigues, think you ?" 

" Really, I know not ; for I have spoke 
with none capable of rightly informing me 
of such things," replied the youthful Shaks- 
peare. 

" Is it true, the unhappy news of the 
murder committed on the poor Prince of 
Orange ?" inquired the other with huge ear- 
nestness. " And is there any intelligence 
to be relied on concerning of the embassy of 
Sir Philip Sydney to condole with the French 
king on the death of his dear brother, the 
Duke of Anjou ?" A number of other 
questions of news followed these in quick 
succession, whereby it appeared that this 
greedy intelligencer, was seeking to get note 
of everything going forward in every part 
of the world ; but his companion gave him 
such scanty answers, he was fain at last to 
give up all hope of turning him to any more 
Drofit — and the old dame having told the 
ages of her children and grand-children, 
with the fullest particulars of their several 
aistories, also rested her tongue — so that he 
was left to attend to the dialogue of the 
Oxford students, who had hitherto heeded 
nothing but their own arguing. 

" Nay, that cannot be, for Aristotle de- 
jlareth the very reverse," said one,, with 
prodigious earnestness. 

" But what sayeth Socrates on that head ?" 
replied the other somewhat triumphantly. 
' Ay, and Epicurus and others of the an- 
cients. I doubt you can do away with such 
evidence. Methinks you must needs ac- 
knowledge yourself to be well beaten in this 
argument, for trulv you are now at your 
last shifts." 

" Nay, be not in such conceit of the mat- 
ter," rejoined the first, in any manner 
rather than like one who suffereth defeat. 
" I never was so well off in my logic since 
the question was started. Now I will main- 
tain, even at the stake, these my proposi- 
tions, which I doubt not to make good with 
all proper weapons of rhetoric, and refer- 
ences of highest authority. First, the body 
hath a soul." 

" Granted," said his companion. 

" All souls are, therefore they, exist." 

" I let that pass." 

" To exist, argueth to live, and to live 
requireth the proper sustenance of life" 



" That hath to be proved," grave y t&> 
marked his opponent. 

"Proved!" exclaimed the other, as if in a 
monstrous astonishment. u Is there anything 
that can live without victual ? Have not ar 
animals, whether of bird or beast, fish or in- 
sect, a natural commodity of mouth and sto- 
mach, whereby they are used to eat what 
pleaseth them ?" 

" There be sundry sorts of creatures who, 
it is credibly known, live without any man- 
ner of victual whatsoever," said his compa- 
nion. " I pass over what is so notorious as 
the barnacle that is the fruit of a tree, there- 
fore can require no feeding, yet is an animal 
with no deficiency of stomach or mouth ; 
and the chamelion who is a beast, yet useth 
himself to no victual. I will say nought of 
the toad, that may live a hundred years shut up 
in the crevice of a rock. I will scarce so much 
as mention the salamander, the phoenix, the 
cockatrice, and other familiar animals, which 
divers famous philosophers maintain do sup- 
port themselves after- a like fashion. But I 
will at once to the stronghold of my argu- 
ment, which is, that ghosts have never been 
known to eat and drink even of the delicatest 
things that came in their way." 

" By our lady I have great doubt of that," 
exclaimed the other ; " hast forgot the ghost 
of the drunken tapster, that used to haunt 
the very cellar in which his corpse was dis- 
covered ; and what should a ghost want in 
such a place, think you, but to refresh him- 
self with a draught of good wine of which 
he had used to be so fond? Dost not re- 
member how the spirit of a certain ancient 
housekeeper was known to walk the j»antry 
of her master's house, and for what reason- 
able purpose could that be, save to feast on 
the store of delicacies she knew was there 
to be found ? But there is a fresher and 
more convincing instance that happened at 
our college only last vacation to Master Pip- 
kin, the proctor. Now he and a certain lame 
doctor of divinity were sworn brothers. Dr. 
Polyglott was of an exceeding gravity, and 
as learned a scholar as Oxford could pro- 
duce. It was said that he was at his books 
all day and all night, and that he liked no- 
thing so well ; but, in truth, he had a mon- 
strous liking for roast pig with codling sauce, 
and this the proctor knew. So he asked the 
doctor to come and sup with him at an hour 
named, and he should have most choice 
feasting on this his favorite dish ; and he 
having gladly assented, Master Pipkin got 
things in readiness. At the appointed time, 
the learned scholar hopped across the proc- 
tor's chamber towards the table much in the 
ordinary way, and feasted as he had neve! 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



18S 



feuted "before ; but he looked graver even 
han he v/as wont to look, and spoke never a 
word the whole time he was engaged in de- 
vouring this delicate food. Nevertheless, 
this did not excite in his host any strange 
surmises, knowing his old friend to be given 
to fits of such deep thinking, he would not 
speak for hours, no matter what he might be 
about. But the strange greatness of his appet- 
ite did create a very singular marvelling in the 
Droctor, for the learned scholar continued to 
fill his trencher, and to empty it with such 
'requency, that in the end the roast pig was 
oicked to the bones, and the oodling-sauce 
eat up to the last mouthful. As soon as this 
Became manifest, Dr. Polyglott hopped out 
if the ehamber as gravely as he had hopped 
ato it. The next morning little Pipkin 
walled on his old friend, to inquire whether 
ie had slept well after so heavy a supper, 
when, to his extreme horror, he learned that 
Jie poor doctor had been dead since noon the 
areceding day. Now it followeth from this, 
hat the worthy doctor of divinity evinced 
lis wonderful fine wisdom, in taking the op- 
portunity to banquet on his favorite dish to 
the last morsel as he did, knowing that such 
delicacies as roast-pig with codling sauce, 
the most fortunate of ghosts cannot hope to 
fall in with but rarely." 

The youthful Shakspeare was somewhat 
amused at what he had heard, and presently 
ie joined in the argument with as serious 
an earnestness as either, much to the marvel 
9f the Oxford scholars, who thought it most 
wondrous, a plain countryman as he appear- 
ed, should talk so well and wisely. It was 
manifest he soon had the best of the argu- 
ment. Indeed, he brought forth such con- 
vincing reasons, clothed in such brave lan- 
guage, that his opponents quickly got more 
into the humor of listening to his discourse 
than of offering any speech of their own. — 
Grave as he appeared, he was but entertain- 
ing of himself with their credulity. 

" But concerning of ghosts, there is a 
thing that puzzleth me out of all telling," 
said he, in conclusion. " It cannot be for a 
moment supposed any person would be so 
heathenish ignorant, or so deplorable foolish 
as to think such things are not to be met 
with — yet there is a matter connected with 
them that methinks goeth a great way to- 
wards such thinking, an' it be not properly 
explained by those having most knowledge 
of the subject. This I will here proceed to 
lay open to you, as I should be infinitely 
glad to be instructed by your opinion. Now, 
as far as the wisest philosophers have writ- 
ten, a ghost is immaterial, of no sort of sub- 
stance, being but the mere shadow, as it 
12 



were, of the body from which it aath been 
separated ; and that none, save only man 
who hath a soul, can come into the state 
that is commonly called being a ghost." 

" Truly sir, there can be no disputing any- 
thing so clearly put," observed one of the 
scholars. 

" Now mark you this, my masters," conti- 
nued the young traveller, with a more pro- 
found gravity ; " there never yet was an in- 
stance of a ghost who appeared without pro- 
per, apparelling — none so abominably ill-be- 
haved as to show himself deprived of clothing 
of every kind." 

" Nay, so horrible improper a thing can- 
not be conceived of them," said the other. 

" Indeed, I thought as much," added Wil- 
liam Shakspeare. " Now there is a ghost 
of a person of worship seen, just as he used 
to be when he lived. How came he with a 
doublet ? Garments have no souls aa Xhave 
ever heard ; and therefore neither hcoe nor 
trunks, nor cloaks, nor hats, nor apparel of 
any kind can be ghosts. And how c»,n they 
be worn of a ghost being of substance as 
they must needs be, not being of the imma- 
terial nature of a spirit ? If the lWiter, as 
hath been credibly affirmed, can slide through 
the crack of a door with ease, the«e is no 
clothing of ever so fine a fabric 1 ut what 
cannot help staying behind at such a time ; 
and so leave the poor ghost without a thread 
to cover him. And when a ghost estandeth 
before any person, his garments being hea- 
vy, and he so exceeding light, they must 
needs fall to his heels for lack of proper sup- 
port, to the horrible scandal of all decent 
spectators." 

The Oxford scholars looked as perfectly 
puzzled as it was possible for any men to be ; 
and evidently knew not what to say on so 
perplexing a matter, for they had wit enough i 
to see there could be but two conclusions to 
such an argument, which were a sort of 
Scilla and Charybdis to the theory of ghosts 
— for if they would affirm ghosts went with- 
out clothing — seeing that none could be had 
of any material that would stay on a sha- 
dow for a single moment — they would put 
themselves against the best authorities that 
had writ or spoken on the subject, all of 
whom vouched for their being properly clad 
in ordinary tiring ; and if they ventured to 
maintain garments might be of the same 
nature with ghosts, they by it expressed 
their conviction, that every article of apparel 
was possessed of a souL which they knew 
to be a proposition so contrary to common 
sense, no sober person would allow of such 
a thing for a single instant. Doubtless, the 
young traveller felt famous satisfaction at 



134 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



having brought these rare logicians to so 
complete a nonplus ; for truly they seemed 
to have been struck with a sudden dumb- 
ness. At last one acknowledged that what 
had just been advanced, involved an argu- 
ment the which had never been started be- 
fore, and he was not then prepared to give 
it answer, as it required a monstrous deal of 
profound thinking, it was of so abstruse a 
nature ; and the other followed with some- 
thing to the same purpose ; and presently 
they managed to turn the disputation into 
another channel. 

In this way the whole party proceeded on 
> their journey ; the only variation being some 
of them would occasionally get out of the 
waggon and walk by the side of the wag- 
goner, amongst whom the youthful Shak- 
speare might be found more frequently than 
any other, inquiring of him the names of the 
places they passed through, and of the fair 
mansions of persons of worship that lay 
within sight, for it was a most welcome re- 
lief to the former after having been tho- 
roughly tired of the humors of his compa- 
nions, to delight himself with observing the 
beauties of the surrounding country, and the 
appearance of the different classes of per- 
sons he met on the road. Every face bore 
to him signs of a certain character, no two 
of whom seemed to be alike ; and from these 
he could, in his own mind, read the history, 
habits, and thoughts of all he gazed on. — 
Mayhap, a great portion of this was mere 
speculation — nevertheless, it served to be- 
guile the time with a very fair entertain- 
ment. 

" And what place come we to next, Mas- 
ter Giles ?" inquired he of the waggoner. 

" Oxford, an' it please ye," replied the 
man. 

'.' Do we make any stay there ?" asked 
the other. 

" Ees, maister, we bide a whole night at 
comely Mistress D'Avenant's, at the Crown 
Inn," answered the waggoner, seemingly 
endeavoring to attend to his horses and his 
companion at the same time. " John 
D'Avenant hath just taken her to wife. — 
Coom, Bess ! put the best leg forrard — do 
now, I prithee — and I'se warrant ye she's as 
semely a host as ever drew spigot. Ma- 
ther-away !" 

" Doubtless, an hour or so with a pretty 
woman maketh your journey to be all the 
pleasanter," observed the young traveller. 

" Doant it thoa !" exclaimed the man, 
with a grin that displayed a pair of jaws of 
extraordinary capaciousness. " Gogs wouns, 
maister ! When it be my good hap to get 
me alongside the shafts o' so goodly sweet a 



creature as Mistress D'Avenant, I feels mf 
heart for to pull stronger nor the best beast 
o' the whole team. Gee-whut ! get thee 
along, I tell thee ! — and I takes it as daintily 
as a fore-horse going down hill. Body o' 
me ! when she bringeth me a pint o' tickle- 
brain, and letteth her sloe-black eyes to rest 
upon me, whilst I be a fumbling o : the mo- 
ney out o' my leathern purse, I feels so diz- 
zy, and so strange, and so full o' monstrous 
sweet pleasantness fro' top to toe, I've no 
more heed o' the waggon than the waggon 
has o'me." 

" Methinks, by this, you must be in love 
with the good dame," said his companion 
jestingly. " But surely you will not think 
of doing mine host of the Crown so ill a turn, 
as to be loving of his wife when you stop at 
his house ?" 

" Wouldn't I, thoa ?" cried Giles, w th an 
inexpressible, sly wink of his somewhat 
roguish eyes, as he lifted his cap with his 
left hand and scratched his head, cou try- 
man fashion. " As far as I can guess, ^ 
doant take a waggoner to be any more free 
of temptation than any other man, but it any 
manner of man whatsoever can come withir 
the glance of Mistress D'Avenant's sloe- 
black peepers, and not think within himself 
how blessed would be his condition were he 
John D'Avenant, and John D'Avenant he — 
he must needs be such a mortal as be clean 
different from the ordinary sons of Adam." 
This, and other conversation to the 
same purpose, excited some faint curiosity 
in the young traveller to behold her whose 
charms had made so forcible an impression 
on the susceptible heart of Master Giles 
and this curiousness of his in due time waa 
indulged. At their entrance into Oxford 
which was at dusk of the evening, the tw» 
scholars left the waggon, and it proceedeo 
leisurely along till it stopped in the yara 
of the Crown Inn. It was too dark to dis 
tinguish objects very clearly, but as far as 
could be judged of it, the inn was a capac : 
ous building well accommodated for its pu? 
poses. Lights were streaming from man. 
casements, and the burthen of a popular 
ballad came in full chorus from one of them. 
A door being open, figures could be seen 
moving about in the red glare of the kitchen- 
fire ; and on a cry being raised of " the wag- 
gon ! the waggon ! Here be Master Giles 
come, mistress !" two or three persons came 
rushing out. 

" John ! prithee make all speed to help 
the travellers out !" cried a female, who waa 
approaching with a lighted candle, which 
she shaded with her hand. 

" Ay, sweetheart ! I'll be with thee on the 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



185 



lastant," replied a young man coming after 
her, and then calling into the house, ex- 
claimed — " Come Ralph ! Come Robin ! 
Wilt be all night a bringing of those steps ?" 

" Welcome to Oxford, good friends !" 
cried the first speaker, very pleasantly, as 
she appeared at the end of the waggon. 

" Ha ! Master Giles, how dost do ?" said 
the other cordially greeting the driver as an 
old acquaintance. 

" Bravely, Master D'Avenant, bravely !" 
replied he. " And your fair mistress. Body 
o' me, an' she doant look more bloomingly 
than ever !" 

" Marry, Master Waggoner ! when am I 
to come to my full bloom, think you ?" said 
the first speaker with a pretty laugh, as she 
left him to pay attention to her new guests. 
William Shakspeare was assisting his fellow 
travellers to alight, but he could not help 
turning round to take note of this Mistress 
D'Avenant ; and in honest truth he saw be- 
fore him as delicious a face as any man need 
desire to see, with lustrous dark eyes, rich 
complexion, and a most bewitching mouth 
glowing as it were, under the light thrown 
upon them by the candle, and ornamented 
with a becoming head-tire. 

" Take him down gently, I pray you, good 
6ir, for he is exceeding weak," said the ten- 
der mother, as the young traveller was help- 
ing her sick son out of the waggon. 

" Truly, he shall be as tenderly handled 
as if his own kind mother were a helping 
him," replied he ; this gentle speech of his 
brought on him the notice of the pretty 
hostess, who looked with a pleased surprise 
at beholding of so handsome manly a youth. 
In due time all had alighted. The Wood- 
stock man had already departed. The 
mother and child, with the old dame, led the 
way— the latter as usual, making herself 
wondrous gracious with the host ; and the 
youthful Shakspeare walking last, by the 
side of his comely hostess, with whom he 
appeared already to be affording some pleas- 
ing entertainment, for she manifestly took 
his converse with infinite satisfaction. The 
waggoner stood behind, gazing after the 
last two as he scratched his head, with a 
look as though he had much rather Mistress 
D'Avenant had stayed where she was, or 
that her companion had come to any inn at 
Oxford sfltve the Crown. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

f 
The trustiest, lovingest and gentlest boy 
That ever master kept. 

Beaumont and Fietchbr. 
The love of boys unto their lords is strange ; 
I have read of wonders of it. Yet this boy, 
For my sake (if a man may judge by looks 
And speech) would outdo story. I may see 
A day to pay him for his loyalty. 

lBrt>. 
Ah ! dere God ! what mai this be 

That a'Ue 4hing weres and wasteth awai ; 
Frendschip is but a vantye 
Unnethe hit dures all a day. 

Vernon M S. 
Alas! 
There are no more such masters ; I may wander 
From east to Occident, cry out for service, 
Try many, all good, serve truly, never 
Find such another master. 

Shakspeare. 

" What dost think of my lord's new 
page ?" inquired the grave old butler of the 
equally grave old housekeeper of the Lord 
Urban, as they sat together in' a smal. 
chamber adjoining the buttery of the earl's 
mansion, taking of their morning repast. 

" Truly a most well favored youth and a 
gentle," replied the old dame. " I be hugely 
mistaken in him, good Adam, an' he be not 
of a most kindly disposition. Never saw 
youth so courteous, and yet so humble 
withal. He is ever ready to do all mannei 
of friendly offices to whoever he cometh 
anigh ; and yet of such humility as he seemeth, 
there is a look and behavior with him that 
is manifestly much above the service h# 
hath put himself upon." 

" Ay, Joyce, that hath struck me mor6 
than once," observed Adam. "But there ia 
another thing which I have observed in this 
Bertram, in which he differs greatly front 
youths of his own age, as far as I have seer 
— and this is, his constant refraining from 
all kinds of pastime. Despite of his appa- 
rent cheerfulness I cannot help thinking he 
hath some secret sorrow which he alloweth 
to prey on his gentle nature. I have not 
lived these years without acquiring some 
cunning in observing of faces ; and I do de- 
tect in his such signs as assure me he is in 
no way happy." 

" Perchance that shall make him the bet- 
ter company for my lord," said Joyce. " In 
deed, they are so like in their humors 
methinks they cannot help taking to each 
other with a mutual good will. It is evi- 
dent the page loveth his lord, he speaketh of 
him so fondly, and attendeth on him with M 



186 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



affectionate a reverence ; and as it appear- 
eth to me, the ea-rl is wonderfully partial to 
his young attendant, for he is never easy 
save when he is present." 

" Truly I think so," added the old butler. 

" I marvel he hath hot come," observed 
the housekeeper. 

" He tasteth nothing himself till his mas- 
ter hath sufficed himself," replied Adam; 
•' and 'tis as pretty a sight as can well be 
seen, to note how, with what store of sweet 
persuasions, the page getteth his lord to par- 
take of the dainties he setteth before him, 
till he hath made a fair meal. But here 
;omethhis light footstep along the passage." 

The next minute the youth who had been 
William Shakspeare's fellow traveller en- 
ered the chamber, clad like a page in the 
^very of the Lord Urban, with a sword and 
tagger, much improved in his looks, though 
still of a more delicate appearance than is 
common with one of his age. Courteously 
le saluted the two ancient domestics, in a 
manner as gentle as if they were his good 
oarents rather than his fellow servants, and 
-ook his place beside them, accepting what 
they helped him to with abundance of thank- 
fulness, and only regretting he should put 
them to such trouble. And this behavior 
of his so took the hearts of old Adam and 
nis companion, that they appeared as if they 
could not do half enough to show how won- 
drously it pleased them. 

" And how fareth our noble master, sweet 
sir ?" inquired the housekeeper. 

" He mends apace, good dame," replied 
the youth. " Indeed, I am now in hopes he 
may be got out altogether of his unhappy 
frenzies and terrible sad fits of melancholy. 
Alack ! 'tis a most grievous thing so noble 
a gentleman should be in so sad a case as 
he is !" 

" Ah ! that is it," exclaimed Adam sor- 
rowfully. " But dost know what great cause 
he hath had for such deep sadness ?" 

" Nay, not a word of it," answered Ber- 
tram ; " nor am I in any way desirous to 
learn, unless my lord think it fit I should. I 
only know he is a most unhappy gentleman, 
and methinks that should be enough know- 
ledge for me to strain my exertions to the 
utmost, to lead him into more pleasing feel- 
ings." 

"I do famously approve of such discre- 
tion," said the old dame ; and then, as was 
customary of her, recommenced pressing 
him to make a better meal. " Truly, never 
met I/any person with such strange lack of 
appetite," she added, on finding her endea- 
vors of no avail. " O' my Word, you must 
not hope to attain any stoutness of flesh, go 



you on with so poor a stomach. But may 
hap there are other things you might more 
relish. There is a fair portion of a roast kid 
now, cooked but yesterday, that would make 
most delicate eating for your breakfast, that 
I will get for you, please you to say you 
could fancy it — or I will have for you a ten- 
der pullet broiled on the instant, an' you tell 
me you have a mind for so nice a dainty." 

" Indeed I thank you very heartily, I am 
well content with the excellent bountiful 
meal I have made," replied the page. There- 
upon the old butler entreated him to make a 
more prodigal use of the ale on the table, or 
allow of his fetching him a cup of choice 
malmsey or canary : but the youth cour- 
teously thanked him, yet could not be in- 
duced to taste a drop more beyond what he 
had drank. Immediately after this, one of 
the grooms of the chamber came to tell Ber- 
tram his lord wanted him ; upon which he 
made what haste he could towards that part 
of the building where the earl had chose to 
lodge himself. Whilst the youth is making 
his way through the long passages and 
broad staircases of this goodly mansion, the 
reader shall at once be transported to the 
Lord Urban's chamber. 

It was a gloomy apartment of some di 
mensions, lighted only by a window of stain- 
ed glass. On one side of it^yas a large 
book-case, well stored with volumes of dif- 
ferent sizes — the chimney-piece was carved 
all round with armorial bearings, in almost 
numberless different compartments — the 
chairs and couches were covered with the 
same dark tapestry as the panels, and the 
table in the centre bore a coverlet of some . 
black stuff, ornamented with a deep border 
of the same color. At the end of the cham- 
ber opposite the book-case, on each side of 
the window, were two large portraits, in 
carved oak frames, — one a handsome young 
knight, in full armor, doubtless meant for 
the earl in his younger days : and the other 
was completely hid under a black cloth. 
There were two doors to this chamber, one of 
which was the entrance, and the other led 
into an ante-chamber where the page slept, 
and to the earl's bed-chamber which was 
beyond it. There was no sign of living 
thing near, save a fine grey-hound that was 
listlessly stretching himself by sliding his 
fore paws close together along the glossy 
flooring till they were thrust out their full 
length, and then he would make a faint sort 
of whining as he looked about and found 
himself alone. 

Presently a noise like the turning of a 
key was heard, which made the dog some- 
what more attentive, but instead of looking 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



187 



tottfards either of the doors, his eyes were 
fixed in a different direction, and the next 
moment a concealed door was seen to open, 
and thereat with exceeding cautiousness, 
the Lord Urban made his appearance, clad 
in a suit of black velvet, and looking as if 
moved with so monstrous a sadness no heart 
could live under it. After closing the door 
as cautiously as he had opened it, the earl 
flung himself into a couch, and with an as- 
pect of a most woful sort, he fixed his eyes 
on the black curtain that covered the pic- 
ture. All this while it was evident his 
mind was in great trouble. His lips would 
move and curl into strange expressions, far 
from pleasing ; his eyes seemed to strain as 
If after some object that was fading from 
heir sight, and then he would start back. 
His breast heaved, and his face grew cloud- 
ed. He would frown till the wrinkles on 
nis forehead appeared to be so pressed and 
squeezed together they must needs crack — 
and draw in his lips so long and strongly, his 
mouth disappeared under the beard of the 
lower part of it. The greyhound looked as 
though he had again composed himself to 
sleep ; yet would he open his eyes and fix 
them on his master with a curious interest, 
at every start or sudden exclamation the earl 
made. 

" 'Twas a rightful deed !" muttered the 
Lord Urban, in deep thick tones that spoke 
a far profounder meaning than the mere 
wards conveyed. '■ 'Twas a just vengeance ! 
The greatly guilty should be greatly pun- 
ished!" ^Presently a strong shuddering 
passed over him, and his aspect changed 
from a severe sternness to a painful melan- 
choly. " 'Twas a most infamous deed !" 
exclaimed the earl, in broken accents that 
were scarce audible; " a deed by which I 
have forfeited all reputation here, and hope 
hereafter. An unknightly deed — a coward- 
ly deed — a most horrible base murder ! 
Ha !" screamed the unhappy man, when, on 
raising his eyes, he met those of his page, 
upon whom he hastily rushed, and seized by 
the throat as though he were about to stran- 
gle him. " Dost come prying and listening, 
fellow ! Nay — nay — " he added, as sudden- 
ly letti ng go the youth as he had laid hold of 
him. " I mean thee no hurt, boy ! — O' my 
life, I will not harm thee. But why didst 
enter without knocking ?" 

" I knocked many times, my lord, but you 
answered me not," replied Bertram, with 
more sympathy in his looks than fear. " And 
}ou having sent for me pressingly, I made 
bold to enter without further delaying." 

" Right, boy, right !" said his lord hurried- 
ly. " I did send for thee I reir.ember me 



well, and doubtless I was too deeply engaged 
i'n mine own thoughts to take any heed of 
thy knocking. But didst hear me say any 
thing discreditable ? — Ought to my disadvan- 
tage ? Spoke I at all of ?" The earl 

seemed as though the word choked him, for 
he could not speak it, and wrung the hand of 
his young attendant, which he had affection- 
ately seized when his humor changed from 
its sudden furiousness, and turned away. 

" Alas, my lord, such I have heard too 
often to pay them any manner of heed," an- 
swered Bertram sorrowfully. "They are 
but the natural offspring of your phrenzy — 
that none, who know you, and love you, 
would take, save as evidence of your exceed- 
ing unhappiness." 

" And dost not believe I have committed 
such wrongful act as I have declared ?" in- 
quired the Lord Urban, again taking his 
page kindly by the hand, and looking into 
his face with a countenance of sadness 
mingled with affection. 

"How could I credit so intolerable a 
thing ?" exclaimed the youth. " Methinks 
the generous treatment I have received at 
your hands would suffice to plant your no- 
bleness firmly in my opinion, but what I 
have seen of your other actions is of the 
like honorable character ; and surely these 
common acts are the properest evidence to 
judge you by — against which the idle say- 
ings of your distempered fancy can weigh 
only as a feather in the balance." 

" True, boy, true," cried the earl, a faint 
smile making itself visible on his noble fea- 
tures, as he more tenderly pressed the hand 
he held in his own. " Such things must 
need be of my mind's disorder. I cannot be 
so horrible base a wretch as I do sometimes 
think myself. I do assure thee I have been 
in wonderful reputation of the noblest per- 
sons, for all truly famous and noble qualities. 
Indeed, I have been from my youth ready to 
cast aside every one thing most valued, 
rather than the slightest blemish should rest 
upon my honor. Surely then it cannot be 
I should in a moment thrust away from me 
the fame I had labored so long and well to 
acquire, and do so cruel a deed all men that 
knew it would cry shame." 

" It is too improbable to be considered a 
moment, my lord," replied his young com- 
panion. 

" And yet thou knowest not the provo- 
cation that may lead to such things," added 
his lord, with a more touching earnestness. 
" It seemeth to me the very honorablest sort 
of man may be maddened by wrong into the 
showing of such notorious ill behavior. 
Thou art too young to judge of this. Tho» 



188 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



canst not yet enter into the feelings of a, 
man who having attained the highest emi- 
nence of nobleness, in extreme confidence 
he shall so live and die, on a sudden findeth 
himself reduced to the lowest base abject- 
ness, by one who was the last of all in his 
expectation to do him any evil." 

" Truly, I never heard of so hapless a 
case," observed the page. 

" Doubtless 'tis somewhat rare," said the 
earl. " But, prithee, get me a book and 
read. I would be amused out of this hu- 
mor. Fetch the same goodly romance thou 
wert engaged upon yesterday." The page 
cheerfully did as he was required, believing, 
by so doing, he should beguile the earl of 
his unhappiness ; and presently sitting him- 
self in a chair with a huge volume in his 
lap, commenced reading of the marvellous 
adventures of certain famous knights. He 
soon got to be too much interested in the 
narrative to attend to his hearer, whom he 
fully believed to be as completely taken with 
the book as himself, — but such was far from 
being the case, for though the earl at first 
appeared attending to what was being read 
to him, in a few minutes it was evident from 
the changed expression of his countenance, 
his mind was engrossed by a very different 
matter. A hollow groan at last forced the 
page to desist awhile from his reading. 

The noble features of the earl now ap- 
peared black and distorted, as though under 
the influence of a great agony — his eyes 
with a sad fixedness staring at vacancy, 
and his hands clenching fast the arms of the 
chair on which he sat — his head leaning 
forward, one leg under the seat and the 
other projecting stiffly before him — in brief, 
the whole attitude as strained as a mere ef- 
figy of stone. 

" Murder !" muttered he in the most thril- 
ling tones Bertram had ever heard. " Oh, 
infamous ! Oh, most base deed ! Oh, in- 
oolerable foul blot upon mine honor ! Nought 
can erase the stain. Reputation ! thou art 
.ost to me forever ! But who slandereth 
Tie ? Who dare say ought to my discredit ?" 
inquired he in a louder voice, and with a 
fierce frowning look. " Am I not Urban de 
la Pole ? Urban the reproachless ? 'Twas 
a just deed ! Who dares " proclaim it to be 
a murder ?" 

" My lord ! my lord ! I pray you out of 
this phrenzy !" exclaimed the page urgent- 
ly, as he pushed his lord slightly on the 
shoulder to arouse him from his strange 
fancies. At this the latter started of a sud- 
den, and grasped his young companion's 
arm with both his hands, staring upon him 
with a somewhat bewildered gaze. 



" Ha ! what dost say, boy ?" hastily in* 
quired he, just above his breath, as it were. 

" I beseech you, my lord, not to allow of 
these violent terrible fits to get so much the 
better of you," replied Bertram, in a most 
earnest voice, and with a look of deepest 
sympathy. " Believe me, there is no one 
person anywhere nigh unto you, would 
breathe one word but to your well-deserved 
praise. It grieveth me to the heart to see 
so noble a gentleman so moved. I marvel 
such gloomy shadows, the mere cheats of a 
disordered mind, should have such power 
over your excellent sweet nature." 

" I do believe thou lovest me, boy," said 
the earl, taking the other's hand in his 
wonted kind manner. 

" Ay, that do I, right heartily, my lord !" 
exclaimed the youth, with a most convincing 
sincerity. " I love you for your truly noble 
character — such as I have heard from divers 
of your honest faithful servants — for the 
greatness of your heart and honorableness 
of your conduct — as shown in a long career 
of truly glorious deeds — for your bountiful 
generousness of disposition to every dis- 
tressed poor person of whose wants you can 
gain intelligence ; — and I love you for your 
noble behavior to myself — the very creature 
of your prodigal kindness — whom you have 
saved from the horriblest evils humanity 
can endure. You found me with nought 
else to recommend me to your notice but the 
desperateness of my state. You took 
charge of me, attended me as a dear friend 
rather than a master ; gave back to me the 
health which long suffering had deprived me 
of ; and the home that villainy had forced 
me from ; and yet, with the full confidence 
of a perfect honorable nature, up to this 
hour you have afforded me all the succor 
needed, without asking me one word of the 
cause that brought me into such necessity 
I might not be the thing I seemed — per 
chance, one quite unworthy of your smallest 
esteem ; but out of your own abundant good- 
ness, you found me such qualities as I most 
needed, and took me into your service, with- 
out trial, question, or doubt. Truly, my 
lord, methinks you have given me great cause 
to love you.' 

" I bless the hour I met thee in the wood," 
said the Lord de la Pole, with affectionate 
earnestness. " I have received more com- 
fort of thy untiring heed of me than have I 
known, I scarce can say the day when, it 
seemeth so long since. I will prove anon 
how much I do esteem thy loving ser- 
vice." 

"I care to have but one proof, an' it 
please you, my lord," said Bertram, ** and 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



!89 



Aat is what I have been laboring for to gain 
all this time." 

" Ay, indeed ? Prithee say what it is ?' 
asked the earl. 

" It is but to have you return to the gal- 
lant activity and proper cheerfulness shown 
by you in times past," replied his young 
companion. At hearing this the Lord Ur- 
ban shook his head mournfully. 

" Ah, boy, that can never be !" said he, 
witlra deep sad emphasis that went direct to 
the hearer'! heart. 

" Try, my lord, I beseech you," added the 
other imploringly. " Hie you to court, and 
Joubt not the example of your nobleness 
would be of especial advantage to every gal- 
.'ant spirit that shall there be found. Take 
your proper place among the powerfullest 
lords of the realm, and be ever ready to af- 
ford them that counsel which your expe- 
rience teacheth you — or be as you have so 
often been before, the valiant leader of the 
chivalry of England, bearing your resistless 
banner into the very heart of the battle." 

" Ay, talk of these things, boy — talk of 
them as long as thou wilt !" exclaimed the 
earl, as a gleam of proud triumph seemed 
shining in his eyes. " I was not always as 
I am. There hath been many a hard fought 
field wherein my spear and curtle-axe have 
done notable service. Those were glorious 
days, — those were gallant scenes. The 
neighing of the war steed, as he rusheth to 
the conflict at the piercing cry of the trump- 
et, soundeth in my ears even now, — and the 
waving penons and the glittering lances, 
and the resistless rush of knights and men- 
at-arms, again return to mine eyes. I feel 
stirred in every vein. Methinks I could seek 
the enemy with all the valor of my early 
manhood, and raise the same resounding 
war cry that hath made the fiercest of the 
battle to rage around me wherever I passed." 

" Ay, that could you, my lord, I would 
wager my life on it !" cried the page, de- 
lighted beyond measure to notice such a hu- 
mor in the earl. " England hath still ene- 
mies to subdue — and there yet remain for 
her gallant defenders many hard fought 
fields to be won. Would you remain in 
inglorious ease when the foes of your 
country are striving for her overthrow, and 
give yourself up to a vain grief when the 
dangers that threaten the land require you to 
hasten to the rescue ? I beseech you free 
yourself from the trammels of your sorrow 
— don your favorite armor — bestride your 
choicest steed — call to your standard the old 
compankms of your valor, and speed wher- 
ever glory is to be gained or wrong re- 
dressed ; and be assurei that net only shall 



the greatness of your fame exceed your 
former reputation, wherever your name can 
be heard, but that you shall enjoy such con- 
tent, such marvellous comfort, and such 
wonderful sweet happiness, as have never 
visited you all your life before." 

" Ah boy, thou knowest nothing of what 
I have endured," answered the Lord Urban, 
and to his companion's exceeding disconten- 
tation, manifestly in as complete a sadness 
as ever. "Thou speakest in entire ignor- 
ance, else wouldst thou have refrained from 
so perfect a mockery as speaking to me of 
happiness. Be sure, that were I not held 
to this spot by a chain, from which nought 
but the grave can release me, long ere this, 
I would have sought in the thickest of the 
enemy a death, by which my name might 
obtain that honor which hath been denied to 
my life. Comfort !" exclaimed he, in tones 
scarce articulate, as he let go the hand he 
had held so long. " Prithee, speak not to 
me such a word again ;" and so saying, he 
rose from his seat, and slowly traced his 
way out of the chamber. 

Bertram gazed after him, with eyes full 
of the tenderest solicitude, and remained for 
some moments after his lord had disappeared," 
in a deep reverie of thought. 

It may be taken as an invariable truth, 
that a truly honorable mind is ever a confi- 
ding one, and taketh every fair appearance 
to be what it resembles. Doubt and suspicion 
belong only to the meaner sort. Those 
whose intentions are thoroughly honest put 
the fullest confidence in the dealings of their 
associates ; and when once opinion getteth 
to be fixed in them of another's worthiness, 
a prejudicial thought finds such difficulty of 
entrance in their unsuspecting minds, that it 
requireth some extraordinary evidence before 
it will be entertained. Thus was it with 
this youth. Of his lord's nobility of charac- 
ter he had formed so strong a conviction, 
from what he had heard and seen of him, 
that such a thing as suspecting him of 
a dishonorable action, was utterly beyond 
the bounds of possibility ; therefore, all the 
Earl's self accusations and dark allusions 
the other could only treat in the manner 
already described, as distempered fantasies 
arising from the gloomy melancholy in 
which he had indulged, as the page had 
heard, since the death of his Countess. 

And thus it went on for many months, the 
faithful Bertram striving all he could to win 
the Earl from the terrible sorrow, with which, 
as it seemed to him, his lord was afflicted ; 
and ever imagining he was succeeding in 
his endeavors, till some violent fit of frenzy 
would make its appearance in the object of 



190 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEAitE. 



his grateful love, and prove how little he had 
gained by his affectionate painstaking. He 
had observed, with some marvelling, that 
when he had left the Earl for any length of 
time in the chamber that served for his 
library, on his return he was sure to find 
him, either gloomily abstracted, or in some 
violent excitement. Sometimes, long fits of 
dreadful self-reproach would follow, and at 
others, he would fiercely insist he had done 
a right thing. In the end he was sure to 
relapse into his customary sadness, from 
which it was with exceeding difficulty he 
was thoroughly roused. It chanced to hap, 
that wanting Lord de la Pole on one occa- 
sion, to acquaint him with, something he had 
forgot, Bertram returned to the library, where 
he had left him a few minutes since, and 
not finding him there, there waited, believing 
the Earl had retired to his bed-chamber. 

Finding his lord's stay was longer than 
he anticipated, he took up a book and sat 
himself down. He had not been long en- 
gaged in reading, when he heard a noise 
close to him, and glancing towards the spot 
whence it proceeded, to his exceeding won- 
der, beheld a portion of the book-case open 
like a door, and immediately after, the Earl 
enter the chamber by its means, and close it 
carefully after him. It was manifest the 
Lord Urban had no expectation of finding 
his page where he was at that time ; for, on 
the instant he caught sight of him, he started 
with a sudden exclamation of surprise, and 
his look was angry, and his manner more 
severe towards Bertram than ever the youth 
had known it to be. 

" How darest thou come here unbid ?" ex- 
claimed the Earl, as with folded arms he 
regarded his youthful companion with a 
stern scrutiny. " Dost seek to pry into my 
secret ? Have I then all this time been but 
encouraging a pitiful spy, who laboreth to 
thrust his curiousness into my most hidden 
affairs, that he might betray me to the 
world ?" 

" My lord 1 my lord ! believe me, I never 
entertained so base a thought," replied the 
page, much affected his lord should think so 
ill of him. 

" Wilt promise never to divulge what 
thou hast seen ?" inquired the Lord de la 
Pole, with increased earnestness. 

" In very truth, my lord, I never should 
have mentioned it to any person living if I 
thought you so desired," said the other. 

" Swear it !" cried the Earl, suddenly 
grasping his companion firmly by the wrist, 
seemingly violently agitated. " Down on 
thy knees and swear by all thy hopes of hap- 
piness here and hereafter, thou wilt hint to 



none there is other entrance to this chamber 
save those with which all are acquainted." 
The page knelt as he was desired, and re- 
peated, as his companion stood sternly over 
him, the form of the oath he was required to 
take. 

" As Heaven is my witness, you need no 
oaths to bind me to your will," urgently ex- 
claimed the youth. 

The Earl appeared scarcely satisfied even 
by this solemn security he had exacted. He 
was still showing most undeniahle signs he 
was terribly influenced by some dark pas- 
sion, for anger flashed from his eyes, and 
distrust appeared in every feature of his 
countenance; his breathing was hard and 
loud, and at every gasp of breath his breast 
heaved as though it would force its fasten- 
ings. 

" Be assured, my lord, I am your obedient 
poor servant, and would die rather than 
betray any secret you might entrust me 
with," continued the other. " But it grieveth 
me to the heart you should think so ill of 
me. I could bear anything rather than you 
should doubt of my entire allegiance. Other 
friend than you have I none in the wide 
world, and therefore what could induce me 
to play the traitor to your confidence. I 
beseech you, my lord,, put away so ungra- 
cious a thought. As I trust in God's mercy, 
I have done nought t© merit it." 

" Well, well, boy, perchance I have been 
too hasty," replied the Earl, somewhat 
moved by the touching earnestness of the 
youth's speech. But never stay in this 
chamber, even for a minute, when I am not 
present. I should have told thee of this, my 
desire, sooner, but it never struck me there 
would be necessity for it." 

The promise was cheerfully made, and 
the Lord Urban's customary kindness re- 
turning, all trace of unpleasantness speedily 
vanished from both. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

Should we disdain our vines because they 

sprout 
Before their time ? Or young men if they 

strove 
Beyond their reach 1 No ; vines that bloom 

and spread 
Do promise fruit, and young men that are wild 
In age grow wise. 

Greene. 

The best room at the Crown Inn at Ox- 
ford was filled with noisy boisterous students, 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



191 



■oat of whom were seated at a long table, 
covered with drinking vessels, at the top 
of which was no other person than Wil- 
liam Shakspeare, for whom indeed all had 
assembled. The two scholars that had 
been his fellow travellers in the waggon, 
spread amongst their acquaintance of their 
different colleges, the fame of the young 
countryman who had so charmed them 
with his eloquent sweet rhetoric, and this 
presently brought whole companies of stu- 
dents to see this marvellous person. They 
were so delighted with his ready wit and 
admirable perfect knowledge of all man- 
ner of subjects, that they increased his re- 
futation so over the university, the dwel- 
ling of John D'Avenant, large as it was, 
could scarce contain the wonderful great 
press of guests that flocked into it. 
Doubtless this made the cause of such 
famous custom to be in especial liking with 
mine host — but independent of these consi- 
derations, he could not help relishing his 
guest's society, it was so full of cheerful ease 
and pleasant humor ; and as for mine hos- 
tess, if there existeth any language in a pair 
of lustrous dark eyes, she did discourse to 
him right eloquently of the favor in which 
he was held by her. 

Doubtless these latter would gladly enough 
have kept their young guest where he was, 
but he had expressed his determination to 
start for London the following morning, and 
this becoming known, the scholars must 
needs give him a parting entertainment, and 
therefore were they crammed so thick in 
that chamber. Divers were thronging up to 
the head of the table, wine cup in hand, to 
pledge him, and there was a monstrous shak- 
ing of hands and shouting of good will ; 
others were talking across the table, or 
leaning over others to claim the attention of 
a distant fellow student. Mistress D'Aven- 
ant was attending to her numerous guests as 
well as she could, now listening with pretty 
coquetry as one of the mad youths retained 
her by the hand, as he whispered something 
in her ear, which was sure to be followed by 
a box of his own from the comely woman, 
though not one that argued any great spite- 
fulness, and the offender would laugh as if 
he had performed some excellent sweet mis- 
chief; and presently answering the num- 
berless sweet compliments, which poured oa 
her from every side, with some sprightly jes- 
ting speech, which appeared to put every 
bearer into a sudden exstacy. 

A party had got hold of her husband in a 
corner, and were trying him with all the 
forms of pleading used in a court of justice, 
tad he appeared to take the jest very plea- 



santly, defending himself with what wit he 
had, and leaving his case to the merciful 
consideration of his judges. Another party 
in another corner were dancing of a measure 
to their own singing. Such a curious num 
of voices surely hath rarely been heard 
before. Sometimes the speeches were in 
Latin, and at others English. Here was 
shouted the fag end of a macaronic verse, 
there the well known burthen of a popular 
ballad ; and this was mingled with a din of 
cries for more wine to the drawers ; a 
knocking of cups and flasks to attract the 
attention of their companions, and peals of 
laughter so long and loud it would often out- 
drown every other noise. 

" WiH Shakspeare ! Will Shakspeare !" 
bawled several of the revelers at the table. 

" What wouldst, my hearts of oak ?" re- 
plied their companion, almost hid amongst 
the throng of laughing riotous scholars, who 
had left their seats the better to enjoy his 
admirable jests. 

" Prithee heed not those knaves of Ba- 
liol," said a round faced stout little fellow at 
his elbow, who made himself the noisiest and 
merriest of the whole party. 

" ' Knaves of Baliol,' thou Brazen-nose 
calf," exclaimed, from the other end of the 
table, a tall youth with long hair, and a nose 
that served his associates as a peg to hang 
their jests upon, it was of so unusual a 
length. " Away with thee, thou cinnamon 
rogue ! What ! because thou art a lord, 
shalt thou call names ? Though thou look- 
est so merry, thou art but a sorry lord. I 
would carve a lord out of a piece of ginger, 
and he should give a nobler flavor to a bowl 
of toast and ale, than wouldst thou to a butt 
of malmsey." 

" Out on thee," replied the young noble- 
man. " Truly thou art a famous carver, 
for thou hast carved thy nose to a fine point. 
I would I could say as much for thy wit : 
and thou hast monstrous need of ginger, for 
there shall be found more savor in a dry bis- 
cuit than can be got out of thee after such 
pressing." 

" Nay, press him not too hard, I prithee," 
said another, whose face appeared as red as 
though it would have out-glowed the rising 
sun. " At so social a meeting I should not 
like to see any bones broke." 

" What dost say thou salamander ?" cried 
the scholar of Baliol somewhat incensed at 
this sly allusion to his poorness of flesh. 
*' Go and cool thy red hot aspect in the river, 
it causeth the whole place to Feel like an 
oven, it burneth so terribly." 

" As I live he will make the place too hot 
to hold thee, anon," observed a companion, 



192 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



mischievously. " If thou wouldst not have 



us all roasted alive, blow not on him g»ood 
Martlemas." 

"Pooh," exclaimed he of the red face. 
" The nose of such a bellows must needs 
carry too^mall a wind to inflame me." 

" My nose in thy teeth, fellow !" cried 
Master Martlemas, in a rage. 

" I thank thee very heartily, but I want 
not so delicate a toothpick," drily replied the 
other, to the infinite amusement of his com- 
panions. 

" O my life, have I got amongst a party 
of cunning limners, my masters," here 
exclaimed William Shakspeare, good hu- 
moredly. " Never saw I such cleverness in 
taking off features." The laughter which 
followed this conceit, restored every one to 
an amiable pleasantness on the instant ; but 
such choice spirits could never keep toge- 
ther a moment, without a trial of their young 
wits, and therefore no opportunities were al- 
lowed to pass in which one could aim his 
weapon at another. 

" Sweet Mistress tTAvenant !" whispered 
a handsome youth, as he caught his hostess 
round the waist as she was passing him. 
'' By those two lustrous stars of love, I 
swear I have a most infinite affection for 
thee. Contrive for me a private meeting, I 
will give thee good proof of it." 

" Canary, did you say, my lord?" inquired 
the pretty woman aloud, with a provoking 
indifferent asjpect, as she glided out of his 
embrace — much to the dissatisfaction of the 
enamored noble. 

" Hither my delectable dainty, Hebe !" 
cried another close at hand. " Brew us an- 
other bottle of goodly Sack, and look thy 
sweetest the while — I warrant it shall want 
no sugar." 

" O' my word, I would it were so, Master 
Lamprey," said Mistress D'Avenant archly. 
" I could make conserves with little trouble 
and small expense ; and who knows but in 
time I should attain to such exceeding skill 
in the producing of sweet subtleties, I might 
have an Oxford scholar or two done in sugar." 

" Make choice of me, I prithee, for thy 
first experiment," murmured one at her el- 
bow. ' I would give thy tempting lips most 
delicious entertainment." 

" Methinks you are sweet enough upon 
me as it is," replied the pretty hostess, in 
the same merry humor. " But I care not to 
make a trial of you provided you allow your- 
self — as it is necessary in such cases — to 
simmer over a good fire till you are reduced 
to a proper consistence, and I have scum off 
Jt you every portion of what grossness you 



hearty laughing of all within hearing of it, 



for the person to whom it was addressed wag 
far stouter of flesh than any in the room — 
indeed, he was of a singular corpulence for 
hi'fo years. 

" Prisoner at the bar !" cried one, with a 
famous mock seriousness, who acted as 
judge in the little court who had been trying 
their host. " After a long and most impar- 
tial trial, you have been condemned by a ju- 
ry of good men and true, on the testimony 
of divers most approved witnesses, whose 
evidence hath not been shaken one tittle by 
your defence to be a most notorious traitor 
and horrible offender against a certain very 
just and proper law, made and provided for 
the express comfort of this good city of Ox- 
ford — to wit, that all the comeliest damsels 
within a circuit of five miles more or less, 
are and ever must be wards of the very 
worshipful the scholar of the University, 
with whom can no man living contract a 
marriage, without first obtaining their privi- 
ty and consent. You John D'Avenant, have 
dared wickedly to seek after the true excel- 
lentest fairest creature that ever deserved to 
be in such covetable wardship, and with a 
most monstrous horrible villainy that all 
honest men must needs stand aghast at, you 
have taken her to wife against the law 
aforesaid, and against the inclinations of 
divers honorable members of the very wor- 
shipful gentlemen scholars, who desired.her 
for their own particular delectation. 

" Silence in the court there !" shouted 
the judge as if in a terrible seriousness, for 
many were taking the jest very merrily. 
" Master Attorney I am shocked to see you 
so behave yourself at so awful a moment." 

" My lord, I humbly beg pardon," an- 
swered a merry varlet, who seemed to be 
doing all he could to keep in his laughing ; 
but the jests and mirthful behavior of certain 
of the jury and his brother counsellors, were 
such as might provoke the mirth of a more 
serious man. 

" Prisoner at the bar !" continued the 
judge, waxing more ludicrously solemn as 
he proceeded. "]t becometh to be now my 
painful duty to pass on you your sentence. 
Hope not for mercy, for, methinks, guilt 
such as yours ought to expect none. I 
grieve to see so young a person, and one of 
otherwise good character, take to the doing 
of so insufferable an offence. But it is evi- 
dent you have lacked good counsel abomina- 
bly. Had you sought myself now, previoua 
to your marriage with that exquisite sweet 
creature, I doubt not it would have been to 
both our contents. I would have paved the 



This speech was followed by the way for your obtaining your h mest desire^ 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



193 



in such a manner that you should have done | 
nothing unlawful. 

"Master Attorney!" cried the judge, 
with a notable grave dignity, as a roar of 
laughter broke from that unlawyer-looking 
person, " see I any more of this unsemely 
conduct, I'll commit you for contempt." — 
Then he added, turning to the culprit, who 
strove all he could to keep a serious coun- 
tenance, though with but an imperfect suc- 
cess. " John D'Avenant, it would be but 
a proper punishment of your horrible crime 
to pass on you the extreme sentence of the 
lav/, but in consideration of this being your 
first offence, and out of regard for your youth 
and inexperience, I make this your sentence 
— Your wife shall be kissed before your 
face, and you shall yourself appoint the per- 
son to execute that punishment. Officers, 
keep fast the doors." 

In a moment some hastened to prevent 
Mistress D'Avenant's escape, and others 
crowded round her husband, recommending 
themselves as capital executioners who 
would do their office neatly, with as little 
pain as need be. The uproar of voices was 
greater than ever, and nothing but shouting 
and laughing prevailed all over the chamber. 
The young husband, who was rather of a 
more careless idle humor than was proper 
for one in his vocation, though he never took 
so much heed of his handsome wife as was 
necessary, liked not these wild scholars to 
be over familiar with her, and he would, if 
he could, have done away with the sen- 
tence ; but he knew full well the sort of 
characters he had to deal with, and that 
there was nothing for it but to submit with 
a good grace. A thought suggested itself 
to him that it was better his wife should be 
caressed by a stranger who was not like to 
see her again, than by one who would re- 
main in the neighborhood, and might per- 
chance seek opportunities for obtaining a 
repetition of such pleasure — therefore, to 
the importunities of those by whom he was 
surrounded he presently named William 
Shakspeare as the person who should fulfil 
the sentence. 

Amid all this din and very J3abel-like con- 
fusion of tongues, the young traveller had 
been engaged in an interesting discussion 
with one or two kindred minds he had dis- 
covered amongst the mass, but when he was 
called on to do the duty assigned him, he 
rose nothing loath, and entered into the spirit 
of the jest very readily. In a very short 
time the busy laughing scholars cleared the 
tabie for to ba the place of execution, and a 
certain divinity student there present, was 
appointed to be the prisoner's ghostly com- 



forter, and to preach a sermon on the sub- 
ject, for the edification of all present — at the 
conclusion of which the sentence was to be 
carried into effect. 

" Truly, my masters, these are most sad 
doings," exclaimed Mistress D'Avenant, who 
was fast held by two young men, who took 
upon themselves the duty of constables. 
" I marvel you should behave so uncivilly 
against a poor woman who hath done no ill 
to any of you." Thereupon, the judge very 
gravely told her that the course of justice 
must not be perverted for the favoring of any 
individual ; and the preacher commenced a 
famous lecture on the duty every person 
oweth to those put in authority over them. 
In this way she was brought to stand in the 
center of the table — her husband at a short 
distance, also held by two scholars, with the 
preacher at his elbow, bidding him repent of 
his sins for his time was come — William 
Shakspeare close by, gravely asking of his 
pardon, swearing he bore him no malice, 
but did his terrible office because he waa 
bound by his duty so to do ; and the judges, 
assisted by the sheriffs and constables that 
stood upon the stools round the table, were 
commanding silence from their riotous mad- 
cap companions on the floor. 

Then the preacher began his sermon, and 
such a sermon as he then delivered had ne- 
ver been heard there or anywhere else. He 
started with endeavoring to prove the neces- 
sity there was for the furtherance of the 
public morals, that learned persons should 
possess and keep in their charge all comely 
maidens of a tender age, — for they being 
wiser than any other class, had alone the 
discretion necessary for the proper bringing 
up of such gentle creatures. No doctrine 
was ever considered half so orthodox ; but 
the preacher seemed inclined to put it be- 
yond the possibility of cavil, for he presently 
fell to quoting divers of the Fathers — brought 
forward long passages from the writings of 
the most famous theologians, and referred to 
what had been laid down on the subject by 
the Council of Trent, and in various bulla 
published by the most influential of the Ro- 
mish pontiffs ; and this was done with so 
earnest a seriousness, that many did imag- 
ine that such things had really been said 
and written. 

" Oh, fine preacher !" cried one. 
" Thou shalt be a bishop, Sir Topas !" ex- 
claimed another. 

" Marry, thou wouldst convert a dead In- 
dian, thou speakest so movingly," added a 
third. Others compared him to Peter the 
Hermit, and some questioned him, how he 
stood affected towards martyrdom — he ap* 



194 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



pearpd bo fit for it. But the preacher went 
on as gravely as he could, and then alluded 
to the unhappy man who had fallen under 
the vengeance of offended justice, and beg- 
ged the prayers of all good Christians in his 
behalf, seeing that he was about making 
amends for the wrong he had done, through 
punishment by the secular arm. Then he 
recommended the culprit to their charitable 
thoughts with such a monstrous earnestness 
— drawing so pitiful a picture of the terrible 
sufferings he was about to undergo — that 
the hearers fell to wailing and weeping most 
woefully. 

" Alack, that any man should come to so 
miserable an end !" moaned Master Lamprey. 

" And one that sold such brave liquor too !" 
cried Master Martlemas, in still more doleful 
accents. . 

Then the preacher concluded with a fa- 
mous exhortation to his auditory ever to 
bear in mind the notable example now set 
before them; and having gained from the 
culprit that he confessed the justice of his 
sentence, and was ready to meet his punish- 
ment, master sheriff called forward the ex- 
ecutioner to do his duty without delay; 
whereupon William Shakspeare readily 
stepped up to Mistress D'Avenant, who 
looked as though she had not made up lier 
mind whether to make a struggle or take 
the matter quietly. 

" I pray you, most sweet hostesss, to par- 
don this my compulsory duty," said the ex- 
ecutioner, as seriously as any of them. " I 
assure you, were I not bound by a superior 
power, I would not do it — at least I would 
not do it so publicly — I would spare you all 
this painful exposure. I would, believe me." 

" Away with you ! O' my word, 'tis a 
shame you should play such a jest upon 
me," answered Mistress D'Avenant, as she 
made some show of struggling, but it was 
of so slight a sort that very little sufficed to 
overcome it, and the next minute every one 
had demonstrated the awful sentence of the 
law had been carried into effect. This was 
followed by shouts of triumph from some, 
and cries of condolence by others, to the 
now liberated husband and wife ; and in a 
short time after, the whole party again found 
their places at the table, and were jesting, 
drinking, and laughing as famously as ever. 
Mistress D'Avenant scolded her partner right 
eloquently, for allowing of such scandalous 
behavior, and mine host assured her he 
would gladly have helped it if he could : but 
she did not seem to be quite comforted with 
such excuses — for all which, it was confi- 
dently believed by some, she was not the 
least pleased of the company. 



All at once there was a great cry for Wil- 
liam Shakspeare to sing them a song. Tliia 
he had already done several times, to the 
delight of his hearers, that they seemed as 
though they could never have enough ot 
such delicious minstrelsy ; nevertheless they 
promised, would he favor them with one 
more, they would be content. After re- 
questing their indulgence for a simple ditty 
— the only thing he could at the present 
moment call to his mind — he sang the fol- 
lowing verses ; the noisy scholars the whilst 
hushed to as complete a peace as if none 
were in the chamber : 

A SONG OF FRIENDSHIP. 

" Sweet friends ! let Pleasure's social law, 

Our souls to genial thoughts dispose, 
For life's rich stream doth freely thaw, 

And bloom and sun smile where it flows. 
'Tis now with us the budding May, 

From nature's bank let's freely borrow, 
Around our Maypole dance to-day, 

Our fates may make us pipe to-morrow. 

" Dear friends ! the rosy morn is ours 

To sport away : the hunt is up ! 
But crown your game with twin-like flowers— 

The brimming heart and brimming cup. 
Now Phoebus glows through all the east ; 

And joy, our lord, hath banish'd sorrow ; 
Then haste to take his welcome feast — 

Our fates may make us fast to-morrow. 

" Brave friends ! let Time no vantage gain, 

Entrench your camp, your want3 provide ; 
Whilst Youth and Love your fight sustain, 

You may for years his siege abide. 
As friendly looks shed round their light, 

From star or moon you need not borrow ; 
Enjoy them while they shine to-night— 

Our fates may quench their beams to-morrow. 

Universal were the plaudits which fol- 
lowed the conclusion of William Shaks- 
peare's singing, and well deserved were they 
too, out of all doubt ; for in the belief that 
this was the last night he should see the 
friendly company around him, he put such 
expression into the words as could have 
been produced by no other. Perchance the 
greater portion of his new acquaintances 
saw in him only an exceeding pleasant per- 
son, but he was regarded in a much more 
brilliant light by some two or three present ; 
whom, with that unerring sympathy which 
leadeth great minds to their fellows, he had 
singled out from their more noisy compan- 
ions, to show to them somewhat of his true 
nature. As they listened to the thrilling el- 
oquence of his language, and perceived how 
pregnant it was with new and profound 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



195 



meanings, they did marvel exceedingly ; and | so unhappily accommodated in marriage, to 



as the natural nobility of the man developed 
itself before their amazed glances, there en- 
tered into their hearts a loving reverence — 
the worship of true greatness among kin- 
dred natures — they had never felt during 
their whole lives. It was far into the even- 
ing before the party broke up, and it ended 
with abundance of good wishes from the 

thoughtless many ; and earnest hopes of i through continual thinking of the approach' 
again meeting, from the discerning few. ing separation ; and, earlier than usual, 
When the young traveller rose in the Mistress D'Avenant left her husband sleep- 



be placed in. Each could not help desiring 
to be well esteemed of the other, as the best 
token they could have of their own worthi* 
ness ; and neither could avoid holding the 
other first in their esteem, their qualities 
were so much more estimable than those of 
any person of their acquaintance. Both 
had had but little sleep this last night 



morning to continue his journey, he found 
Mistress D'Avenant in a chamber by herself, 
putting his things together ready for his tak- 
ing with him. She was a woman as far 
superior in mental as she was in personal 
endowments to persons in her sphere of life ; 
for her natural strong mind had been care- 
fully cultivated ; and possessed of such gifts, 
she was the very sort of woman that would 
most appreciate a man so prodigally gar- 
nished with admirable qualities as was her 
youthful guest. Her marriage had not been 
one of affection, and her husband quickly 
proved himself a person whose weakness of 
character she could hold in no esteem. Her 
superior intellect soon exerted its proper in- 
fluence, which he very readily acknowledged, 
leaving his affairs to her entire management, 
whilst he sought for nothing but the enjoy- 
ment of his thoughtless pleasures ; but such 
conduct still more lessened her respect for 



him ; and when she beheld the manly dispo- kan evident restlessness, and such listless 



sition of William Shakspeare, and caught 
glimpses of the marvellous noble mind with 
which it was accompanied, she could not 
help wishing Heaven had blessed her with 
so" choice a husband. As for the young 
traveller, he could not avoid seeing and ad- 
miring the extraordinary capacity his beau- 
tiful hostess evinced in such converse as he 
had with her, and the extreme perfectness 
with which she fulfilled her household du- 
ties ; and more than once he found himself 
making comparisons between such estima- 
bleness, and the neglectful and obstinate 
Dehaving of his vain and ignorant wife, 
whereby the latter's unworthiness was shown 
in most glaring colors. At the end, he would 
grieve he had not met with so excellent rare 
a partner as had John D'Avenant. 

Having now been staying at the Crown 
several days, on a footing of the completest 
intimacy, he had ample opportunity for in- 
creasing the admiration he felt for his charm- 
ing hostess ; and she getting more knowledge 
of his notable excellences, laid herself out to 
please him as much as she could. It was a 
dangerous situation for two young persons, 
ao admirably gifted in mind and person, and 



ing off the effects of his evening reveling, 
to prepare for the departure of her youthful 
guest. When the latter made his appear- 
ance before her, there was a tear upon the 
long lashes of her dark eyes, but she speed- 
ily commenced affecting her customary cheer- 
fulness ; and he too, merely addressed her 
with his ordinary gallantry; yet, in their 
hearts the while, there were feelings as dif- 
ferent to their outward conduct, as is light 
to darkness. 

For all this show of indifference, neither 
could conceal from the other the extent to 
which they were feigning. The trifling 
speech which kept so carefully to all man- 
ner of matters of little moment, as it had 
never done before, grew less and less, and 
then came to brief sentences, spoken with 
tremulousness, till, for a time, words would 
fail them altogether ; and the careless man- 
ner of their behavior, gradually left them for 



doing of their occupations, as bore witness 
to the extreme confusion of their thoughts . 
and feelings. Mistress D'Avenant was put- 
ting the last knot to the little bundle of things 
her companion had brought with him, and 
she was engaged upon it with so extraordi- 
dinary a care, pulling it to a proper tight- 
ness, and smoothing the folds of the bundle, 
as though she could never satisfy herself 
with her work; and William Shakspeare 
close beside her, was putting on his left- 
hand glove, so deliberately, and with such 
prodigious heed that every finger should fit 
well into the leather, as if such a thing waa 
an affair only to be attempted with the at- 
tentiveness of a matter of vital importance. 
As these things were doing, their hearts 
were beating high and wildly, and each felt 
the scarce endurable struggle of the power- 
fullest impulses of humanity laboring for a 
free existence. " Well, this must needs 
do," said Mistress D'Avenant, with a great 
effort, as she placed the little bundle near 
her guest. 

" Oh, it will do exceeding well," grate- 
fully replied he, giving it a hasty glance. 
He appeared to have got his glove on to hii 



196 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



liking, or rather, he thought like his fair 
companion, the time was now come for ac- 
tion. He held out his ungloved hand before 
her, and forced a faint smile into his hand- 
some countenance. 

" It is full time I should be on my jour- 
ney," he added, hurriedly ; " so now I must 
take my leave of you." She seized his 
hand, with a very desperate grasp, as it 
were, her own trembling all the while ; and 
looked up into his eyes with a glance, where- 
of the expression baffleth all my powers of 
description — it was so imploringly tender. 
He continued, " I cannot attempt to thank 
you for the very bountiful sweet kindness 
you have shown unto me, since it hath been 
my good hap to dwell beneath this roof: but, 
believe me, the memory of it cannot pass 
.away, as long as my grateful nature bear- 
eth any token of thought, feeling and life." 

" Oh, sir, methinks it scarce deserveth any 
mention, replied his beautiful hostess, with 
such emphasis, as words have only when 
they come direct from the heart. " Had I 
been a thousand times more attentiveto your 
desires, I could not in mine own opinion, 
have done for you one half sufficient. But 
you are going. I just begin to learn how 
to appreciate your inestimable excellences, 
when you hurry yourself away ; and, per- 
chance, I may never have sight of you 
again." 

" O my life, sweet Mistress D'Avenant, I 
will not allow that to be, for my own sake !" 
exclaimed her companion. " Be assured, I 
know the infinite worth of the treasure I 
leave behind me too well, to neglect it ; and 
of whatever I most covet of Fortune, a 
speedy return to, and a long continuance of 
your generous behavior have the first place. 
My only fear is, my .poor name may be too 
speedily forgotten." 

"Never, Master Shakspeare !" cried the 
beautiful woman, earnestly, " truly I must 
be dead to every sense of goodness, when 
my memory faileth me on so goodly a sub- 
ject. Believe me, in future times, I will 
look back upon the days I have known you 
as the very sunniest of my existence ; and 
might I have any hope of such enjoyment 
again, I could endure my miserable state 
with a proper patience. Go, sweet sir, since 
it must needs be. I mistake you, hugely, if 
you can think ill of me at my now adding, 
you take with you all that 1 can deem of 
most sterling preciousness in this world." 

" Dear Mistress D'Avenant ! assure your- 
self I will essay all means to deserve such 
honorable opinion," replied he, much touch- 
ed by this proof of confidence in his integ- 
rity ; " what my feelings are for you I can- 



not trust myself to express ; and yet nothing 
is so true as that their whole tendency is to 
hold you as a pattern of everything that is 
noblest in woman." 

Thus parted the youthful Shakspeare and 
the lovely Mistress D'Avenant ; and soon 
after he was once more a traveller, trudging 
his way manfully along the high road with 
his little burthen on his shoulder — his 
thoughts looking towards Oxford and his 
steps directed in the way of London. Hither- 
to his journey had been productive of infinite 
profit to him in getting acquainted with the 
humors of men — his favorite study ; but his 
stay at the great university had been pro- 
digiously to his entertainment, for he visited 
every college, and examined every building, 
with an especial veneration for their learned 
character, and a particular delight in their 
historical associations. As he proceeded on 
his journey his mind dwelt delightedly on the 
events of the preceding days, till it, at last, 
fixed itself with a truly marvellous pleasure, 
on the handsome young hostess of the Crown 
Inn. He could not have avoided observing 
how unsuitable to such a woman was her 
husband ; and it was too apparent to him 
that her situation was far from pleasing to 
her. To be as tenderly esteemed of so ad- 
mirable a creature, as she had given him 
reason to believe he was, gave him with 
an inexpressible sweet pleasure, a peculiar 
pride in himself, for he — in the true spirit of 
nobleness which influences the high-minded 
man when he findeth himself beloved by a 
worthy woman — looked upon it as the chief 
est honor his humanity could attain ; and, 
beyond all doubting, there is nothing of which 
true manhood should be so proud ; and when 
as in this instance, a woman, so unhappily 
circumstanced, showeth herself to be above 
all petty prejudices and selfish cares, and 
declareth her feelings in fullest confidence, 
believing their cause and their tendency to 
be too exalted to produce any base conclu- 
sions, the man must be a disgrace to the 
name he bears, if he do not feel himself as 
proud a creature as may be found in the 
whole world. 

A being so well-disposed as was William 
Shakspeare, most assuredly would appreciate 
such conduct at a price beyond all telling. 
Now, filled as he was by the thrilling im- 
pulses of early manhood, when a sympathy 
for what is loveable stirs in every vein, he 
was peculiarly open to favorable impressions 
from the other sex, but his sense of good 
which so completely had the custody of 
affections, exerted over him a higher power 
arid were directed to better purposes, than 
could any mere admiration ; and whilst it 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



19? 



tttrew open his mind and heart to chamber 
worthily the excellence of beauty, it kept for 
them there a still more honorable lodging 
for the beauty of excellence. He felt, the 
whilst, a motive free from selfish considera- 
tions, for hitherto he had sought but for to 
raise himself and those belonging to him ; 
but now he would seek his exaltation rather 
as a pedestal to place another's goodness at 
its summit. Mistress D'Avenant in her 
avowal, had exhibited that fearlessnees, 
which those only know, who, whatever may 
be their situation, are under the noblest in- 
fluences. A meaner nature so circum- 
stanced would have sought to hide her feel- 
ings, and exhausted the artillery of feminine 
dissimulation ere she would have allowed 
them to be known ; but in such a disposition, 
those feelings would have argued a weak- 
ness, and, perchance, have led to a crime, 
whilst in the other, they were an undeniable 
evidence of strength, and, more than any 
other thing, would have induced to virtue. 

It is more than idle for any to assert that a 
married woman to love any man save her 
partner, is not to be tolerated under any 
circumstances, for where she is ill-matched, 
there cannot be so notable a way to keep 
her to the proper duties of good wifehood, 
than to place her affections in so honorable 
a quarter, she must needs know that only by 
the most excellent behavior can she be held 
in such esteem there as she desires — whereof 
the consequence must be, she will bear with 
the humors of a bad husband, and show a 
cheerful endurance of her unhappy fate in- 
fluenced by the gladdening hope of gaining 
what she most covets. Deprived of so com- 
fortable a stimulus, the chajices are the un- 
happy wife would sink into a miserable 
apathy, or, in disgust of her condition would 
easily become the prey of any dishonest 
artifices that might be directed against her 
by a pretended lover. Mayhap some may 
say such ennobling love so produced is rarely 
to be found, but I place my faith too strongly 
on the honorableness of woman, to doubt it 
would be familiar enough, were men to be 
met with of sufficient worthiness to call it 
into more frequent existence. At least, such 
was the affection with which Mistress D'- 
Avenant regarded the youthful Shakspeare, 
and the latter entertained it as of such a sort, 
and fully resolved it should so continue, if its 
lasting depended on his efforts to deserve it. 
His thoughts very profitably employed, the 
young traveller pursued his journey. The 
waggon had gone too far to be overtaken by 
his walking, and though he was passed, or 
came up to divers carriers laden with pack- 
ages of all kinds, his expenses had already 



so diminished his means, that he found him- 
self unable to purchase a sitting in any of 
their carts, without leaving himself penni- 
less ere his journey was finished. Indeed, 
as it was, by the time he reached Uxbridge, 
when he had paid his bill for lodging he 
started in the morning with his purse emp- 
tied of the last coin. This was a discovery 
that would have come exceeding unpleasant- 
ly to many in a like situation with himself, 
for he was still a good distance from his 
destination and nothing wherewith to get 
him bed or board when he there arrived ; but 
with the eager hope of youth, he trudged 
along in high spirits, fully convinced he had 
but to show himself to the elder Burbage, 
and his old acquaintance would welcome 
him with all proper heartiness. 

As he was trudging manfully along, and 
had got within a mile or so of Tyburn, he 
came up to three men dressed with some 
appearance of respectability, who seemed to 
be comporting of themselves very merrily. 
The one was a stout fellow with a bold 
swaggering and an impudent daring look 
with him, his face pimpled, and his nose of 
a somewhat prominent redness about the top 
of it. He was attired in an old plum-colored 
velvet doublet — stained down the front, as if 
with wine — his hose were scarlet, though 
the tint was fading through dirt and age ; 
and his trunks had been of an orange 
twaney, but by this time they were nigher 
of a sad color. He wore roses in his shoes, 
but they looked as though they had grown 
in a chimney, and his hat was of that sort 
that are distinguished by a high crown, but 
a spectator might look as high as the skies 
and yet see no crown of any kind. His 
companions were garmented in no better 
fashion — one of whom, was a blear-eyed 
youth, with a famous large mouth drawn on 
one side as though he had been in the habit 
of biting round a corner : and the other was 
chiefly noticeable, for a short, stiff, red beard, 
that stood out of his chin like a broken brick 
hanging over an old door-way. 

" Ha, truly a good jest, Master Sugarsob, 
— a good jest o' my fife," cried the first, 
seeming to be in a famous mood for laughing. 
" Bots on't !" exclaimed he, with the wry 
mouth, " I see not the jest, Captain Sack, 
and if a jest it be, I like not the humor on't I 
promise you." 

" By this hand, my Lord Cinnamon, I 
meant no offence in't !" exclaimed the own- 
er of the red-beard, with prodigious earnest- 
ness. 

" I like not the humor on't — I like not the 
humor on't," muttered he who had been 
styled Lord Cinnamon, twisting his mouth in 



198 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



a manner as though he had a marvellous 
inclination to bite off the end of his left ear. 

" I tell thee," 'tis a most exquisite jest," 
cried the one called Captain Sack, laughing 
out of all moderation. " What sayst Master 
Countryman ?" 

The young traveller felt somewhat sur- 
prised at being appealed to in a matter of 
which he was entirely ignorant, but he 
could not help feeling amused at the droll 
figures of the persons before him. 

" I prithee tell me the jest, and I will say 
what I think of it," replied he. 

" 'Tis no more than this," said the pimple- 
faced gentleman, as he very impudently 
stared the other in the face,' whilst he cut 
the youth's purse from his girdle, and on 
the same instant, the other two stood on 
each side of him, with their daggers' points 
at his throat. He saw at a glance resist- 
ance Was useless. 

" 'Ifaith, if that be all the jest, I see not 
much in it," observed William Shakspeare, 
who could not resist his natural tendency 
even at such a moment. 

" Why, how now, and be hanged to thee !" 
exclaimed the disappointed thief, as he be- 
held the emptiness of the purse he had taken. 
" Dost put thy quips upon us ? How darest 
to come abroad in such heathen fashion. 
'Slight 'tis a jest with a vengeance !" 

" I see not the humor on't — I see not the 
humor on't!" cried his wrymouthed com- 
panion, seemingly as if he enjoyed his as- 
sociate's dissatisfaction. 

"Nor I either, Jemmy," answered the 
cut-purse; "but at least here is better 
jesting." And thereupon he snatched away 
from the youth his little bundle of linen. At 
this moment, a string of pack-horses becom- 
ing visible in the road, the three thieves 
made off as fast as they could down a bye 
lane, leaving the young traveller to continue 
his journey not only without money of any 
kind, as he was before, but without a single 
thing for his wearing, save what he had on 
his back. 



CHAPTER XXX. 

Goe, little Booke ! thyself present, 
As child whose parent is unkent, 
To him that is the President 
Of Nobleness and Chivalrie. 
And if that envy bark at thee— 
As sure it will — for succor flee 
Under the shadow of his wing. 

Spenser. 

Methinks, it is now high time, the courte- 
u reader should know something concern- 



ing of the two young knights, kinsmen to 
Sir Marmaduke'de Largesse, who were left 
in so ^ore a strait sometime since, Sir Re* 
ginald being badly wounded by one whom 
he had so unjustly regarded as a false friend, 
and Sir Valentine seeming to be still more 
hurt he had done his companion in arms such 
damagement. Little time was lost in con- 
veying the latter to his kinsman's residence, 
where his loving cousin night and day at- 
tended on him better than could have done 
the faithfulest nurse that ever was known.. 
The wounded knight could not be indifferent 
to such loving service, and when he was 
told the exact history of his behavior to their 
mutual fair mistress, he loved him more than 
ever he had done, and on the instant, gave 
up all pretension to her in favor of his friend ; 
but this the latter took no advantage of. He 
remembered the last words he had of the 
poor foundling, and the determination they 
evinced; and feeling also, that, could he 
succeed in getting her to change her mind, 
he could not with any satisfaction to himself 
enjoy the happiness whereof his friend was 
deprived, he resolved he would see her no 
more. As for her, it may be sufficient to 
say, she was where she fancied herself free 
from her vile persecutors, yet was she much 
nigher to danger than she imagined. 

Sometime after this, the two friends join- 
ed their commander and tutor in chivalry, 
the noble Sir Philip Sidney, and accom- 
panied him on his embassy, to condole with 
the French king, on the death of his dear 
brother, the Duke of Anjou. They made a 
most gallant figure at the court of France. 
Many fair ladies gave them excellent con- 
vincing proofs they were well esteemed of 
them, the which the elder received very readi- 
ly, and lacked not a suitable return ; for his 
disposition could accommodate itself to love 
— as he called it — as many as would allow 
of his passion ; but the younger was not of 
this sort. He could give his affections to 
one only, and they were unalterably fixed 
on the gentle Mabel ; and though he receiv- 
ed the favors of the kind dames of France 
with the courtesy becoming a true knight, 
his heart was wandering through the groves 
of Charlcote after that exquisite, yet most 
unhappy creature, who had the sole claim 
of its sovereignty. 

They were now strolling together in the 
garden of the Queen's palace at Whitehall, 
whilst Sir Philip was with her Majesty, and 
divers of the great lords and officers, hold- 
ing of a privy council, to deliberate on cer- 
tain important matters affecting the national 
honor and safety. Of this council, methinks 
some description would here be in good place, 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



199 



m a, spacious chamber, richly hung with 
arras, the Queen's Highness sat in robes of 
state — with a small crown of gold on her 
head — on a raised throne covered with rich 
carving and embroidery. One arm rested 
on the arm of the seat, with her jewelled 
hand imbedded in a fair white handkerchief, 
very fine and delicately worked ; the other 
elbow rested on the other arm of the chair, 
her hand supporting her head, and her body 
resting against the back of the seat. In 
this position she remained with a famous 
gravity in her features, listening to what 
was advanced by each speaker; but she 
rarely remained in it long, for if anything 
dropped that she liked not, she would take 
the orator up with some tartness ; and when 
the speech met with her views, she would 
add to it something of her own, which show- 
ed how much it was to her satisfaction. 

Before her in their robes of office sat the 
chief officers of the crown, save only the 
one who might be at that moment speaking, 
who stood up ; and chiefest of these were 
the Lord Treasurer Burleigh, the Secretaries 
of State, Walshingham and Davison, the 
Earl of Leicester, the Earl of Sussex, Charles 
Howard of Effingham, the Lord High Admi- 
ral, Sir Nicholas Bacon, and Sir Philip Syd- 
ney. The subject under discussion related 
to the state of affairs in Flanders, and the 
necessity of there keeping a powerful force. 
It might be somewhat tedious to give the 
speeches of the different members of the 
council. Suffice it to say, as was usual the 
case when anything was to be done that re- 
quired an outlay from the treasury, my Lord 
Treasurer strongly advised great caution, 
and argued, if peace could be procured, even 
at some sacrifice, 'twas infinitely better than 
the uncertainties of a war ; and in his policy 
he was seconded by the two secretaries and 
Sir Nicholas Bacon. My Lord of Leicester, 
on the other side, was for carrying on pre- 
parations in that country worthy of Eng- 
land's greatness ; and spoke of the important 
results which would follow by so doing. My 
Lord of Sussex was for a like dealing, only 
he differed with the last speaker as to the 
manner it should be done, and that too with 
an honest bluntness, that spoke more of the 
soldier than the courtier. Whereupon the 
other replied, defending his views with much 
apparent calmness and courtesy, which 
brought a sharp rejoinder from my Lord of 
Sussex ; and, as was often the case at the 
council, here would have followed a very 
angry disputation, had not her Highness 
quickly put an end to the dispute by rebuk- 
ing them both. These two powerful noble- 
»ea rarely met without having some words: 
13 



. but my Lord of Leicester, by a famous com- 
mand of temper, always made it appear he 
was in no way blameable ; and my Lord of 
Sussex, who was usually rash enough to 
express what he thought, and manifestly 
thought no good of his opponent, was by 
many looked upon as the one in fault. 

The other commanders there advocated 
the views of the Queen's favorite, save only 
Sir Philip Sydney, who had not yet expres- 
sed his opinions. At this her Highness, who 
held him in high esteem, commanded him to 
what he thought would be best in the handl- 
ing of such a business, upon which he gave 
a most eloquent and elaborate view of the 
present state of Europe, particularly dwel- 
ling on the hostile designs of the King of 
Spain upon this country, as evinced in the 
immense warlike preparations he was mak- 
ing in all parts of his dominions ; and show- 
ing in the clearest light what gain would 
accrue to England, by conducting her ope 
rations in Flanders with sufficient means 
and a proper spirit. It is utterly impossible 
to convey anything like unto an adequate 
idea of this notable speech ; but it was put 
forward with amazing fineness of rhetoric, 
and with such excellence of language, that 
it was clear any who had the slightest com- 
prehension of the matter, must be convinced 
of the properness of what Sir Philip had ad- 
vanced. 

Then Queen Elizabeth spoke at some 
length, expressing how naturally averse she 
was to any proceedings likely to give hurt 
to her good subjects ; but as war was forced 
upon her for the protection of the kingdom 
from Popish snares, and that to fight abroad 
was better for the people than to fight at 
home, it must needs be she could do no 
other than assist those who were combatting 
against her worst enemies, and so endeavor 
to keep the war from her own doors. Her 
speech was very spirited and full of sage 
quotations from Latin and other authors, 
to show her justice somewhat — to show her 
learning somewhat more. The end was, 
that she not only adopted the views of Sir 
Philip Sydney, but gave him the command 
of some forces that were to be sent into 
Flanders, to disembark at Flushing, of which 
place she appointed him governor. Other 
things were also to be done, but as these do 
not much affect our story, methinks there 
shall be no need of the relation. After this 
the council broke up, and Sir Philip returned 
on horseback with the two young knights to 
his own dwelling. 

Shortly after, the three companions in 
arms joined the Countess of Pembroke in 
the library, a fair chamber well stocked with 



200 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSFEARE. 



ail manner of books, especially of romances 
and poems both English and foreign. The 
countess seemed intent on a large manu- 
script ; but this she put on one side at the 
entrance of her brother and his friends, 
whom she welcomed very gladly. Presently 
they fell to conversing as was their wont 
on such topics as were of the most intellec- 
tual character, for it was a custom with this 
truly famous woman to endeavor as much 
as possible to draw out the minds of her 
associates, and where she found them defici- 
ent, to show them glimpses of the know- 
ledge they wanted in its most delightful as- 
pect, and give them a zest to acquire it 
more fully. This made her so much the 
admiration of the learned of her time. In 
truth I have some reason for thinking she 
diffused the spirit of intelligence more widely 
by the fascinations of her eloquence, than did 
one half the colleges in the kingdom with 
all their notable efforts at teaching. A 
familiarity with the best classic writers was 
then the fashion — perchance set by her high- 
ness, who was no contemptible scholar— and 
to this there was frequently joined consider- 
able knowledge of the Italian poets and the 
French romances. But with the countess, 
and with her equally gifted brother, the fashi- 
on made itself apparent, arrayed in those 
graces of humanity, whidh might make it 
most enchanting, — and to them flocked such 
scholars as wished to be thought of the 
fashion, and those more fashionable sort of 
persons who sought to be regarded as schol- 
ars. The two young knights were among 
the very sincerest admirers of the Countess 
of Pembroke : — but Sir Valentine regarded 
her with an enthusiastic reverence, which 
exceeded even the feeling of the same kind 
with which he looked on Sir Philip Sydney, 
and few of their numerous circle of friends 
were so well esteemed of these illustrious 
persons as were those gallant gentlemen. 

"I have had notable rare company, brother, 
since the morning," said the countess. 

" Truly, I cannot see how it could well be 
otherwise," answered Sir Reginald, with a 
very ready courtesy. " For even were you 
left alone, you must needs be in such excel- 
lent company as can nowhere else be met 
with." 

" I' faith, Sir Reginald, methinks you are 
taking a leaf from the book of my kinsman, 
Leicester," observed my Lady Pembroke,with 
an exquisite smile. 

" Nay, I think he hath been taking a lesson 
from the courtly Sir Christopher Hatton," 
observed her brother with a laugh. 

" By this hand !" exclaimed the young 
knight earnestly, "the last lesson I took 



of any man was from a better master thaffl 
either." . 

" And who might that be ?" inquired Sir 
Philip. " For surely he must be exceeding 
worthy — my kinsman being a very noble 
gentleman, and Sir Christopher, though a 
very courtier, is not without some good 
qualities." 

" I doubt not I could make a shrewd guess 
at this right famous master of yours V said 
the countess, with an approving glance. 

" I cannot imagine one who knoweth his 
excellence so thoroughly, could name any 
other," replied the knight. 

" Let us have his title, and quickly, Sir 
Reginald," cried Sir Philip. " For my me- 
mory is at fault." 

" Assuredly it is one Sir Philip Sydney, 
well known of all men to be the best master 
of knights that can be met with in this our 
age," replied Sir Reginald. 

" And with all proper pride I do acknow- 
ledge myself also to haye profited by his 
right admirable lessons," added Sir Valen- 
tine,, with a warmer enthusiasm. 

"Well, although, as I take it, you- do over- 
rate the master hugely," replied the object 
of their eulogium, but not without a sensible 
satisfaction at its thorough honesty, " I musS 
say this — I would every master were as ho- 
norably off for pupils. But who were of your 
company this morning, my dear sister ?" in- 
quired he, seeming anxious, as great mindaf 
ever are, by shifting of the conversation, to 
avoid his own praises. 

" Truly, 1 have had so many, I scarce can 
remember one half of them," replied his ac- 
complished relative. " First there came the 
merry Bishop of Bath and Wells, to intro- 
duce to me a certain learned scholar of his 
acquaintance, who was exceeding anxious 
to be known to me, with whom I had much 
choice discourse, made more pleasant by 
some droll sayings of my Lord Bishop." 

" Methinks Dr. Still is somewhat of tocr 
jesting a nature for a grave prelate," ob 
served her brother, good-humoredly. " His 
' Gammar Gurton's Needle,' smacketh very 
little of the church, and his talk hath just as 
much of the sermon." 

" My next comer was a certain Master 
John Lily," continued the countess. '' He 
hath brought me a play of his, entitled ' Alex- 
ander and Campespe,' which though I fin^ 
to lack something in plot and character, is- 
not without some fair signs of merit." 

" Ah, Master Lily, I know him well,' 
said Sir Philip. " He hath left the college 
for the play-house, but I doubt his great fit- 
ness for either. He hath lately sought tf 
set himself up as Master Grammarian, ta 



THE ¥OUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



SOI 



teach us a new style of English, but surely 
nothing so strained and unnatural was ever 
heard of!" 

" Then I had with me the famous author 
of Jeronimo," added his sister. 

" Ay, Master Kyd hath got himself into 
marvellous repute," observed the other. 
" He hath a most moving skill in the compo- 
sition of his plays. His blank verse is ex- 
ceeding spirited, and not without a proper 
touch of true poetry — nevertheless, he pos- 
sessed many faults of extravagance, it 
would be advisable in him to eschew." 

" After him I had the knight of the 
smirched mantle." 

" Ha ! my very excellent good friend Sir 
Walter Raleigh !" exclaimed Sir Philip, with 
much earnestness and some pleasantry. 
" By this light his throwing his fine cloak 
into the puddle, hath put his acquaintance 
on so fair a footing with her highness, he is 
like to make a gallant stand at court. But in 
justice I must acknowledge he is a truly 
valiant young soldier, and hath in him the 
best gifts of the scholar and the gentleman 
to an extent greater than that of any of 
whom I have knowledge." 

"At least so he hath seemed to me," said 
the Lady Pembroke, and then the two knights 
added their testimony of his worthiness, for 
he was of their particular approved friends 
— but more of his truly noble character anon 
gentle reader^ 

" After these there came persons of all 
kinds/' continued the Countess of Pembroke. 
" I was like unto a besieged city sore 
pressed. Hither came gallants to idle their 
time — poets to read to me their verses — 
play writers to bespeak my presence at the 
play-house to see their play— booksellers to 
offer me the very newest Works they had 
published, hoping for my commendation, — 
and many poor scholars seeking to be au- 
thors, who required only my poor influence, 
at least so they believed, as a stepping stone 
to fame. I did my best for all— =and all ap- 
peared in excellent content with their visit." 

After this the subject of their converse 
turned upon a certain work recently written 
by Sir Philip Sydney, since well kaown to 
every reader as the right famous Arcadia. 

" Nay, dear brother, but the merit cannot 
be denied." exclaimed his fair relative, after 
the author had expressed a humble opinion 
of it. " I will not hear of your speaking 
of it slightly. It is a work just as I should 
have expected from you — a combination of 
chivalry and scholarship put into the most 
delectable apparelling." 

" You must needs be too partial a judge to 
pass an honest sentence in this case, sweet 



sister," said Sir Philip Sydney, good humor* 
edly. 

" That I can in no way allow," cried Si? 
Reginald. " That my Lady Pembroke is a 
good judge, and a fair judge, methinks would 
be stoutly maintained by every one who 
hath the honor of her acquaintance ; not 
only because she is in herself peculiarly 
good and fair, but because her opinions par* 
take so largely of the like qualities ; and 
though she cannot help regarding the writer 
of so notable a work with considerable par* 
tiality, because of his standing in such near 
relationship to her, it doth not follow she 
cannot properly appreciate its excellences. 
Indeed I am apt to think she would look 
more closely into the nature of any produc- 
tion from such a source, and therefore known 
its quality and character better than could 
any other." 

" Surely there can be no doubt of this," 
added Sir Valentine, more earnestly. " Even 
were my Lady Pembroke less gifted than 
she is, it is scarcely possible her love for the 
writer could mislead her in her judgment of 
the book ; for as all that most perfect wit 
could do would be to praise, her affections 
are surely not likely to stand in the way of 
so appropriate a duty. But surely, of all 
persons my lady ought to be the best quali- 
fied to be a judge in such case, else that no- 
bleness of nature so many have found, can 
be but of small advantage to her." 

" O' my word, you are all alike !" ex- 
claimed Sir Philip, seeking to turn off the 
question as pleasantly as he could ; then 
taking up a book which lay on the table be- 
fore him, he added, " Want you now, a book 
deserving of your warmest encomium, here is 
one. It is no other than ' The Shepherd's 
Calendar,' written by my esteemed friend 
Master Edmund Spenser, who hath done me 
the honor of its dedication. It is a sort of 
rustic poem, or series of eclogues, wherein 
the poet, in the feigned name of Colin, ex- 
pressed very movingly his infinite griefs 
caused by the treachery of a false mistress, 
to whom he hath given the title of Rosa- 
linde." 

" I am apt to think this poem of Master 
Spenser's is not altogether a fiction," ob- 
served the countess. " There is a heartiness 
in it, a truth and vividness, which never 
come of the imagination alone." 

" You are right," replied her brother. " I 
heard of Doctor Gabriel Harvey, to whom I 
am indebted for my introduction to the poet, 
that he had formed a deep attachment to some 
female, who, after seeking, by all manner of 
artifices, to ensnare his affections, when she 
found they were hers beyond recall, treated 



302 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



him with unexampled perfidy, and soon after 
married some obscure person — doubtless as 
worthless as herself. The general cry on 
hearing of such instances is, ' a good rid- 
dance :' and this may be true enough to a 
certain extent ; but men of Master Spenser's 
stamp, when they do love, do so entwine the 
filaments of their hearts with the beloved 
object, that any disunion is to them the ter- 
riblest laceration that can be imagined, and 
leaveth a wound which afflicteth them with 
a continual agony." 

" Of aH men living, such as are of the 
highest imaginations are most likely to meet 
with such a fate," said his gifted sister. 
" None do so readily become the prey of an 
artful woman — for their love of the pure and 
beautiful which is the powerfullest impulse 
of their natures, leadeth them to put their 
faith, and heart, and soul, in fair appear- 
ances; and when a woman, under such 
guise, showeth signs of being favorably dis- 
posed to them, they enrich her with their 
sweetest thoughts and sympathies, and look 
to her, and to her alone, for the realization 
of their happiness. I doubt not, as it gen- 
erally happens in such a case, the original 
of Master Spenser's Rosalinde was an ob- 
scure person, who, assuming the qualities 
with which such a disposition as that of her 
gifted lover, is most apt to be taken, was 
honored with his regard ; and then, merely 
out of selfish vanity to possess so proud a 
gallant, she made his confiding nature 
believe she truly loved him, till she had 
thoroughly enslaved his feelings, and forced 
his adoration to be subservient to advance 
sufficiently her own pride. I regret to say 
such women are by no means rare. They 
are of the thoroughly heartless, who reck- 
lessly enter into a mischief for which they 
can never render adequate compensation, 
careless of ought save the gratification of 
their vanity. 'Tis lamentable that such 
base idols should receive such precious sac- 
rifice." 

Both Sir Valentine and Sir Reginald, 
with their acccustomed gallantry, were for 
asserting that women so treacherously dis- 
posed were not to be found ; but the coun- 
tess would not allow of statements so flatter- 
ing. She honored them for their opinion ; 
but her own deeper knowledge of the sub- 
ject, and honesty of heart, made her refuse 
't as erroneous. 

"It matters not," observed her brother, 
interrupting the disputation. " There are 
6pots on the sun, and if that we meet with 
similar blemishes in that wonderful fair lu- 
minary, woman, we ought to remember 
how many are her admirable qualities, and 



how hapless would be our case without her 
shining light to warm and illumine our 
world." 

" I would grant all that very gladly," re- 
plied the countess ; " and right proud am I 
to hear my sex so considered. But this 
altereth not the case ; there are, unfortu- 
nately, women of the sort I have alluded to ; 
and, be they few or many, the evil they do is 
out of any calculation ; for they single out 
for their victims the truest and noblest na- 
tures ; and the mischief endeth not with 
them, for the misery of such must needs af- 
fect the wide circle who take in them' the 
interest they deserve. In the particular in- 
stance of Master Spenser, I feel more moved 
than perchance I otherwise might be, know- 
ing, as I do his good qualities so intimately. 
He is the gentlest creature I ever met, and 
a very child in simplicity and affectionate- 
ness — thoroughly ingenious, unobtrusive, un- 
offending, kind, and grateful. Gifted, too, 
as he is, with the highest powers of mind, it 
seemeth a marvel to me he should be other- 
wise looked on by any woman save with ad 
miration and homage." 

" The worst feature in the case is the in- 
gratitude of these false Rosalindes," added 
Sir Philip. " The poet honoreth such a 
woman by attiring her in the exquisite fair 
livery of his genius, to the complete hiding 
of her natural poor apparelling ; and then 
thus admirably garmented, she. quitteth him 
to whom she is so greatly indebted, and, by 
means of his gifts, palmeth her worthless- 
ness upon some other." 

" Now here is most excellent evidence of 
the noble qualities of our esteemed friend," 
said his sister, putting her hand upon the 
manuscript before her. " It is the first part 
of a great poem in heroical verse, wherein 
he intendeth to represent all the moral vir- 
tues, assigning to each a knight, in whose 
conduct the operations of that virtue, where- 
of he is the acknowledged protector, are to 
be expressed, and by whom the vices and 
unruly appetites, that are opposed to it, are 
to be overthrown. Truly, a most compre- 
hensive design ; but the surprising richness 
of the imagery — the purely imaginative char- 
acter of the language — the high and chival- 
rous feeling which pervades every part— 
and the perfectly original character of each 
conception, as far as I have read of it — ara 
equally manifest." 

" Truly, ' The Fairy Queen,' promisetn to 
be a work of lasting fame," added Sir Philip. 
" From the specimen entrusted to me, I. hes- 
itate not in saying, it cannot help proving to 
be a mine of the very richest ore." 

"But what most deserveth our eulogium 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



301 



■ the purifying and ennobling tendency of 
this poem," continued the countess. " The 
object appeareth to be to exalt humanity, 
and show to what heights it can climb ; 
that those who may be ambitious of great- 
ness, shall have proper guidance to the ele- 
vation they aim at. With this idea in view, 
the poet bringeth before the reader, man in 
all his nobleness, and woman in all her pu- 
rity — everything that can make knighthood 
appear in such chivalrous character, as must 
be most worthy of female adoration ; and all 
that can give to feminine beauty that perfec- 
tion, which is the truest excitement of 
knightly achievements." 

" Surely Master Spenser hath earned for 
himself the gratitude of every knight in 
Christendom !" exclaimed Sir Reginald. 

" Ay, that has he," added Sir Valentine, 
with a like earnestness. " Indeed I know 
not how a great mind, such as his must 
needs be, could have found employment so 
profitable to virtuous feeling and honorable 
conduct." At this moment, the conversation 
was interrupted by the appearance of a 
serving man, announcing the name of Mas- 
ter Spenser, and presently there entered a 
man of handsome mild features, somewhat 
touched by the spirit of melancholy, but not 
sufficiently so to render their gravity un- 
pleasing. His eyes were clear, and beam- 
ing with the gentlest expressions ; and his 
beard short, and rounded under the chin. 
He wore a suit of a sober cut, with a falling 
band round his neck, cut into points. In 
figure he was somewhat slim, and in beha- 
vior of a graceful courtesy. All rose to 
welcome him at his approach, and though 
the greeting of the others was exceedingly 
hearty, there was in that of the countess the 
tenderness of a sister. He received these 
tokens of their good-will with a modesty of 
demeanor, that bespoke the natural retiring- 
ness of his disposition. 

The conversation soon returned to its 
former subject — the writings of Master 
Spenser. Sir Philip Sydney mingling with 
his praises some show of criticism ; but his 
gifted sister was evidently in no mood for 
playing of the critic, for she spoke most elo- 
quently in their commendation. The poet 
listened with looks of delight and gratitude, 
attending to the opinions they expressed with 
the deepest respect, knowing what oracles 
his judges were, and seeming to marvel any- 
thing of his invention could be so veil 
thought of. 

" I am greatly bound to you for such hon- 
orable mention of my poor performance," 
obaerved he, with an impressive sincerity ; 
" 1 have merely trod in the footsteps, and, 



as must needs be, at a humble distance ot 
those illustrious masters of the epic art, Ho- 
mer, Virgil, Ariosto, Dante and Tasso ; and 
I will strive all I may to continue in so glo- 
rious a path. But I am come here with the 
hope of seeing justice done to a poet, who, 
as far as I can judge of the example of his 
powers that hath accidentally fallen into my 
hands, is like to overtop the ablest writers of 
his age." 

This speech created exceeding surprise in 
those around him, and the speaker was quick- 
ly asked to what he alluded ; whereupon he 
continued — 

" I had just parted with my gallant and 
noble-hearted true friend, Sir Walter Ra- 
leigh, about an hour since, when, as I was 
passing by Dowgate, my attention was forc- 
ibly attracted by a decent-looking young 
countryman, struggling in the rude grasp of 
divers constables, who were hurrying him 
off to prison, for what offence I know not. 
Whilst observing him, I noticed a paper fall 
from his doublet, which all else about him 
were too busy with their prisoner to regard; 
I presently stepped forward and picked it up. 
I found it to be a poem, the which, with your 
gracious permission, I would gladly read to 
you." 

Permission being very readily granted, — 
for every one appeared singularly curious 
on so strange a matter, — Master Spenser 
produced a paper, from which he read what 
is here set down : — 

" THE POET OWNETH HIS SUBMISSION TO THE 
SOVEREIGN BEAUTT." 

" Lo ! from the feathery foam I see thee rise 

'Scaped from the arms of th' enamored billow, 
A thousand balmy airs stoop from the skies, 

And round about thee hold their pliant pillow ; 

The beach is gained — the oak, the elm, the 
willow, 
With all their ancient heraldry appear, 

Owning a brighter sunshine in thine eyes, 
Streams laugh beneath thy looks ; and far and 

near, 
Doth the whole landscape thy rich livery wear. 

" First-born of Nature ! Queen of Life and 
Light ; 
Mother of Love ! (whose power supports thy 
beirig) 
Whose flames the quenchless lamps of night, 
And flasheth where morn's burning car ii 

fleeing, 
Hither to me ! My fettered thoughts be 
freeing ; 
And, as the obedient slaves their mistress own, 

With thy divine apparel make them bright, 
That men may see they're thine, and thine alone, 
And where they go they may thy might make 
known. 



804 



THE YOU1H OF SHAKSPEARE. 



" I call thee ! I, thy fervent worshipper, 
Whom thou hast gazed on from thy sec/et 
places, 
Seeking to be thy holy minister ; 

Enclasp my spirit in thy fond embraces ! 
Delight each feeling with thy gladd'ning 
graces ! 
Teach every sympathy thy gentle lore ! 
Be for my hopes a ready messenger ; 
And all that's best of me instruct to soar, 
Where thou hast garnered thy most precious 
store. 

" Ere I knew thee I was like some deep nook 
O'ergrown with gnarled trunks and weeds 
entangled, 
Where smiling nature never deigned to look, 
And wind and water wrestled as they wran- 
gled ; 
I met diy gaze ; — then all my verdure span- 
gled 
With countless myriads of refreshing dews ; 

The sullen flood turned to a sparkling brook, 
And the hushed wind no more would show his 

thews, 
Where virgin buds betrayed their blushing hues. 

" Then was I filled with store of sunny gleams, 
As some rich pattern skilful hands are weav- 
ing, 

All shot about in threads with golden beams ; 
Or ears of grain the harvest lord is sheaving, 
Ere the great ripener his hot couch is leaving. 

And such hath been the magic of thy glance, 
A change fell o'er my thoughts, my hopes, 
my dreams, 

And I became, through my allegiance, 

A wilderness turned to a fair pleasance. 

" I saw thee when thy mother Nature held 

Thee in her lap before my marvelling glances, 
When breeze and billow their rough music 
quelled 
To soothing lullabies and cheerful dances, 
When all earth's chivalry of blades and lances 
Leaped into motion over hill and dale, 

And blooming youth and patriarchal eld 
On bow'rs and banks, the rock, the wood, the 

vale, 
Donned in thy name their brightest coat of 
mail ! 

" I knew thee by the soul-enthralling good 
That threw its rosy halo round thy dwelling, 

By banishment from thy pure neighborhood 
Of things that show no token of excelling, 
By tuneful praises, every voice was telling. 

Of plumed courtier grateful for thy smile ; 
And the sweet incense, not to be withstood, 

Shed by a thousand censers all that while 

Swung to and fro beneath each forest aisle. 

" I loved thee for the kind and open hand 

Thou hast at all times held out at my greeting, 
For lessons of the true, the rare, the grand, 



That made my entertainment at our meeting 
For bounteous largess ever more repeating, 
Of precious favors delicately choice ; 

And more than all for sky, and sea, and land, 
Which, in thy braveries, thou madest rejoice 
With graceful form and music-breathing voice. 

" Seen, known, and loved of me so long and j 
well, :,, 

Methinks I hold such fond familiar footing, '*■ 
That shouldst thou slumber in some moss-grown 
cell, 
Or ruin hoar where reverend owls are hooting, 
Whilst time its strong foundations is uproot- 
ing, 
Unto thy private chamber I might hie, 

On tiptoe, breathless, lest I break the spell 
Which holds thine eyelids with so firm a tie, 
And couched beside thee lovingly might lie. 

" Therefore I call thee now, sweet lady, mine,, 
Come forth, my queen, from thy most glorioiu 
palace ! 
Dear Priestess, leave thy star-enamelled shrine 
That boasts its river font, and floral chalice, 
To the storm's rage or cloud's most gloorrT 
malice, 
And in my mind make thou thy present bow«i i 
Shed there thy warmest, brightest, puwy 
shine, 
And as 'tis nurtured by the genial power, 
Each fresh idea shall show a rarer flower. 

" As 'tis of thee that I essay to sing, 

On me let thy immortal worth be grafted, 
My nature then thy precious fruit would briny 

Like .odors on the summer zephyrs wafted ; 

Or some rude weapon gemmed and golden, 
hafted, 
To be a sign unto an after age, 

That I had been thy knight, thy \cxd, tb 
king, 
Thy scholar, by thy teaching rendered sage, 
Thy slave, whose labor brought a goodly wage 

" Ah me ! perchance thou art not so inclined 
And think'st it better to be gaily straying, 

Giving thy tresses to the wanton wind 

As thou dost wander up and down a maying 
Or art by clearest waters idly straying, 

Lost in delight of thine own loveliness, 

Mirrored within the wave — and there dos» 
bind 

A delicate garland o'er each dainty tress, 

And all thy charms doth tire in such brav« 
dress. 

" Well, if 'tis so indeed — it needs must be, 

I cannot give thee any such adorning, 
Still shall all natural things witness for me 
In courts where there hath never been sub- 
orning, 
That noon and twilight eve, eve and early 
morning, 
Only to gain thy love I cared to live ; 
But surely if 'tis vain to hope for thee, 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



206 



Thoa canst thy highest power and purpose give 

To some befitting representative ? 

" And such a one know I, whose great desert 

Giveth her comeliness its noblest garnish ; 
Her spirit, that makes envy fall inert, 

Gleams like a blade that Knows no soil or 
tarnish, 

Or painting shining in its freshest varnish ; 
Oh ne'er hath been such costly carcanet ! — 

A truth that none who live can controvert, 
For in and out all Stirling gifts are met, 
And every gem of price therein is set. 

" Doubtless so rare a being hath obtained 

From thee the title of her rarity : » 
For from what other source could she have 
gained 

Her embassy of love and charity? 

'Twixt ye there is such small disparity, 
I oft have thought she was herself the queen, 

Thou her, — and near her have remained, 
Paying that rev'rence to her shape and mien 
I would but give to thee hadst thou there been. 

" And long may she such glorious office hold ! 

And long to me present her fair credentials 
May in each word her embassy be told, 

Each look convey the same divine essentials 
Thy mightiness alone hath meaning for : 

Then with a tribute richer far than gold 
Will I do homage as thy servitor 
And ever honor thy embassador. 

" Truly, I'll find her lodging of the best, 

All furnished in a fashion most endearing, 
To be its mistress rather than its guest ; 

And give such gallant vestment for her wear- 
ing, 

As shall the best become her noble bearing ; 
I'll have before her Fame's loud trumpet sound ; 

Upon her head I'll place a jewelled crest : 
And wheresoe'er her footsteps shall be found, 
My monuments shall glorify the ground. 

" And thus my whole affections I subject, 
Whilst o'er my cheek the hue of life is florid, 

To use thy laws, thy rule, thy dialect, 
Forswear all brutal hate and vengeance horrid, 
From zone to zone, the frigid and the torrid 

Whist of this world I am a denizen ; 
And ever show the loyalest respect 

Where'er thy signet is apparent, when 

Thou seekest dealings with my fellow men." 

A famous marvelling was exhibited by all 
present, at the reading of these verses, and 
much was said of the unknown author, for 
whom exceeding interest had been excited ; 
and, at last, Sir Philip Sydney hurried 
Master Spenser away with him, that they 
might learn who he was, and where he 
might be found, with as little delay as pos- 
sible. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

This fool comes from the citizens, 
Nay, prithee do not frown ! 

1 know him as well as you 
By his livery gown — 
Of a rare horn-mad family. 

Anok. 
Tell Fortune of her blindness, 

Tell Nature of decay, 
Tell Friendship of unkindness 

Tell Justice of delay ; 
And if they dare reply, 
Then give them both the lie. 

Sis Walter Raleigh. 

By dint of constant inquiries of carmen, 
pedlars and others, the youthful Shakspeare 
found his way to the Bankside, where, as 
he had heard, stood the playhouse whereof 
the elder Burbage was manage. He en- 
tered London by the Uxbridge road, in a 
strange wonder at the number of persons he 
met, as soon as he had got to the held called 
the Hay-market, near Charing, where the 
country people held a market of hay and 
straw, for the convenience of the Londoners. 
There, the abundance of splendid mansions 
he passed, and numberless houses of the 
citizens, the shops, the warehouses, the 
churches, the great din of traffic, that soun- 
ded along the streets, of itinerant chapmen 
bawling their wares — with the rolling of 
carts and waggons, and the goodly caval- 
cade of nobles and gallants riding their 
sprightly palfreys, astonished him exceed- 
ingly, whilst the more closely he approached 
the city, the path became more thronged 
with persons of all kinds and conditions, in 
such exceeding variety of appearance, that 
it seemed an endless puzzle to the young 
traveller to guess their several characters 
and vocations. 

By the time he arrived at the Globe play- 
house, he was weary with hunger and walk- 
ing. A flag was flying at the roof, which 
denoted that the play had commenced, as he 
learned from a bystander ; so he thought it 
would be most advisable to wait till it was 
over, before he presented himself to any of 
his "old companions ; therefore he strolled 
about the place amongst the venders of 
fruit, and crowds of idlers that stood nigh 
the building. As he was noting, with his 
accustomed curiousness, the manners of the 
sorts of persons in his neighborhood, on a 
sudden a horseman rode up, and alighting 
beside him, cried, " Here, fellow, hold my 
horse, and I'll give thee a groat at my 
return," fifing him the bridle and quickly 
vanished into the playhouse. William Shaka- 



\ 



9M 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



peare was taken somewhat by surprise at 
this occurrence, but remembering that his 
purse was penniless, and himself both tired 
and hungry, he was well enough disposed for 
the earning of any sum, even though it came 
of such humble employment as the holding of 
a horse : nevertheless, whilst he walked the 
animal up and down, his mind was wonder- 
fully busy in forming all sorts of bright am- 
bitious prospects, as completely at variance 
with his present poor shift, as any matter 
could be. 

Thus he employed himself, till the people 
coming thronging out of the doors of the 
playhouse, told him that the play was done ; 
and presently, up comes the gallant, whose 
horse he had in charge, gave him the pro- 
-mised groat, and rode away ; but it so hap- 
pened, while he was engaged with the latter, 
two young ^nen, very fairly clad, who were 
passing near, when they caught sight of the 
young Shakspeare stopped of a sudden, and 
regarded him with a very curious and mar- 
velling aspect. 

" It must be him, Dick !" said one. 

" Ay, marry, it is ; but who bringeth him 
here, holding of horses, Tom ?" added the 
other. The object of their attention, as 
soon as he had parted with the gallant, was 
for proceeding to the Globe, but he was stop- 
ped by these two persons making up to him, 
whom he had no great difficulty in recogni- 
zing as his old school-fellows, Tom Greene 
and Dick Burbage. Great was the joy of 
this meeting on both sides ; and the young 
traveller soon told what brought him to 
London, and his adventures on the journey, 
even to the holding of the horse, which was 
received by his merry companions with some 
interest and more laughing. The latter 
seemed to be just the same careless, free- 
hearted fellows they had been when boys ; 
and, I doubt not, were quite as ready to 
pass off an ingenious jest here in London, 
as ever they had been in merry Stratford. 

" Where's thy father, Dick ?" inquired 
Green. 

" Methinks, he must now be intent upon 
the getting rid of his blackamoor's face," 
replied young Burbage. 

"Come thou with us, Will," said the 
former to the youthful Shakspeare. " We 
will to Master Manager at once, and get 
him to give thee a place in our company — 
amongst whom thou wilt meet Hemings and 
Condell, thy once chosen associates — then, 
leave the rest to us, and if we lead thee not 
a right merry life, it cannot be other than 
thine own fault." Talking of their old 
pranks, in a famous humor at every allu- 
sion to them, the three proceeded together 



into the playhouse, and after passing through 
some strange places — as the young traveller 
took them to be, — they arrived at a door ;— 
William Shakspeare, in famous spirits and 
full of pleasant anticipation, for all his hun- 
ger and weariness. 

" What, ho, Master Manager !" cried 
Tom Green, knocking loudly ; " Give us 
entrance, I prithee ! 1 bring thee aid — I 
bring thee strength — I bring thee comfort — . 
I bring thee a marvel, a prodigy, a phoenix, 
— I bring thee present profit and future 
greatness." 

" Come in, a God's name, Tom !" replied 
a voice from within, with prodigious ear- 
nestness. The young traveller had some 
difficulty in recognizing his old acquain- 
tance, in the smut-faced personage half 
unclad that was pulling off his hose, in the 
meanly furnished chamber, in which the 
former now found himself. 

" Heart o' me !" exclaimed Greene, laugh- 
ingly, as the manager at the entrance of a 
stranger began hastily a drawing on his 
hose again." " Care not for thy legs j 
methinks they are well enough for a black 
fellow." 

" Well enough !" echoed the manager 
glancing at his limbs with a very manifest 
pride. " Well enough for a black fellow, 
saidst thou ? I tell thee what it is, Tom, 
black fellow or white fellow, or even a 
Greene fellow, for the matter of that, hath 
never been able to boast of such handsome 
things to stand on since the world began." 

" Bravely said, Legs !" replied the other 
in the same merry humor. " But here I 
have brought with me a certain friend of 
mine whose great merit I can vouch for, 
who desireth to be a player, and of our 
company." 

" 'Tis Will Shakspeare, father, from 
Stratford," added his son. 

" Away with him !" angrily cried the 
elder Burbage, to the extreme astonishment 
of every one else. " 'Slight, I've had enough 
of Will Shakspeare to last me the rest of my 
days." 

" Why, what hast had of him, I wonder !" 
exclaimed Greene. 

" Had, quotha !' replied the manager ; I've 
had of him what was like to get me a speedy 
hanging on the highest tree. Some six years 
since or more, I met him, when, with my 
company about to play at a noble lady's 
mansion in the country, and he got me to 
consent to his playing of a part in a new 
play that I had sent me to represent before 
her visitors — well, the varlet was not con- 
tent with marring the end on't by saying of 
a parcel of stuff instead of what had been 



THE YOUTH OF SHAR3PEARE. 



90V 



nut down for him ; but scarce an hour after 
ne mends the matter by assisting of a com- 
panion to run off with a young damsel there 
on a visit. It was well for me I showed my 
prudence by affecting a perfect ignorance of 
the whole proceedings, for had it come to 
my lord's ears I had shared in them in any 
way, I should have been ruined outright, 
clapped in a prison and ordered for execu- 
tion without hope of reprieve." 

William Shakspeare explained the cir- 
cumstance just alluded to, but the more he 
explained the more enraged seemed the 
manager, that he should have been put in 
such jeopardy as he had been to assist in a 
scheme of which he was kept in entire igno- 
rance, and not even the entreaties of Greene 
and his own son could induce him to alter 
his resolution to have none of Will Shaks- 
peare for to be of his company. Dick Bur- 
bage got vexed at this look, but Greene, con- 
fined not his vexedness to looks. He spoke 
out warmly in behalf of his friend, and said 
such sharp words to the elder Burbage that 
he grew choleric, and there would have been 
a complete falling out betwixt them, had not 
the cause of it interposed, and implored 
them not to make him an occasion for quar- 
relling. The young traveller left the cham- 
ber with a much heavier heart than he had 
entered it. Here were all his proud hopes 
overthrown at a blow, and he, faint with 
hunger, and his long journey, without a 
place to lay his head in, or ought for his 
many necessities but the solitary groat he 
had received from the gallant for holding of 
his horse. He had only got a few steps 
from the playhouse when he was overtaken 
by Tom Greene. 

" Care not for that old churl ;" said he, 
" Perchance thou wilt do as well elsewhere ; 
so keep up thy heart, Will ; and Dick and I 
will devise something for thy advantage. I 
have now an appointment which will take 
me an hour or so ; in the me-anwhile speed 
thee over London Bridge, and inquire thy 
way to the house of Mistress Colewort who 
selleth simples, and herbs, and such things, 
at the sign of the Phoenix, in Bucklersbury 
— there is my lodging ; call for what thou 
wilt, and make thyself at home there, till I 
come." The kind-hearted player hurried 
away; and his old schoolfellow full of grate- 
ful feelings retraced his steps the way he 
had come. He remembered Bucklersbury, 
having passed it going from Cheap to Lom- 
bard-Street, therefore, he never thought of 
questioning any as to his road, but pro- 
ceeded on, thinking over his heavy disap- 
pointment so intently, he regarded nothing 
else. He had passed London Bridge, and 



not being very heedful, had taken a wrong 
turning out Fish Street Hill. He had got 
some distance along sundry winding nar- 
row streets, when all at once, he was brought 
to a stand still by some authoritative voice, 
and he quickly found himself surrounded 
by persons in long gowns trimmed with fur, 
that seemed some officers of the corporation, 
and others who, by their bills and apparel- 
ling, he took to be constables of the watch. 

" Stand, fellow, and give an account of 
yourself!" exclaimed one. 

" What brought thee here ? Whose 
varlet art thou ?" inquired another. 

" An' he be not a masterless man, Master 
Fleetwood, I know not one when I see 
him," observed a third. 

" A very vagrom, I'll swear," cried an 
ancient constable, poking his grey beard into 
the young traveller's face. " I pray you, 
Master Recorder, to question him of his 
calling. I am in huge suspicion I have had 
in my custody some score of times already." 

" What is thy name, caitiff ?" demanded 
he who styled Master Fleetwood, in a very 
high and mighty sort of manner. 

" First tell me, why I am thus rudely 
questioned and stopped, my masters ?" said 
the youthful Shakspeare, who liked not being 
so handled. 

" Oh, the villain !" exclaimed one of the 
constables, in a seeming amazement. " Here 
is monstrous behaving to his worship master 
Recorder, and so many honorable aldermen ! 
Dost know no manners ? Wilt show no 
respect of persons ? Here are divers of the 
worshipful corporation going about taking 
up all manner of masterless men and house- 
less vagroms that infest the city ; and if thou 
art one of them, thou art a most graceless 
fellow. Tell master Recorder thy name on 
the instant, or thou shall to Newgate in a 
presently." 

" You have no business with me, or my 
name either," answered their prisoner, get- 
ting to be a little chafed at his treatment. 

"Who is thy master, caitiff," inquired one 
of the aldermen. 

" I have none," replied the youth, some- 
what proudly. 

" There, he confesses it, an' it please 
your worship," cried the constable. " I 
could have sworn he was a masterless man, 
he hath such a horrible vagrom look." 

" To prison with him !" exclaimed Master 
Fleetwood, with some asperity. " This 
country gear of thine, I doubt not, is only 
worn as a blind. Thou hast a very (iishonest 
visage ; an exceeding cutpurse sort of coun- 
tenance ; and 1 feel assured that when thoa 



308 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



art hanged, there will be at least one rogue 
the less." 

" And I feel assured," said William Shak- 
Bpeare, " that when thou departest this life — 
no matter in what fashion — there will be at 
least one fool the less." 

" Away with him, for a rude rascal !" 
cried the enraged recorder. The aldermen 
made similar exclamations, and five or six 
of the watch so held and hustled him, that, 
for all his struggles, which were very great, 
he was presently dragged like a felon, 
through the public streets with no lack of 
abuse and blows, till he was safely lodged in 
the prison of Newgate. Here he scarcely had 
opportunity for the noticing of anything till 
he found himself in a large yard, surrounded 
by amazing high walls, wherein there were 
several prisoners of different ages, most of 
whom looked to be necessitous poor fellows, 
who had most probably been driven into dis- 
honest courses by the pressure of some 
fierce want ; but there were others, whom, 
at a glance, it was easy to see, were down- 
right villains — and some few whose appear- 
ance bespoke their only crime to have been 
their want of friends. 

Some were amusing themselves at foot- 
ball, others at bowls — some at cards, others 
at dice ; and these were generally of the 
villainous sort. Here and there might be 
seen one walking about in very woeful coun- 
tenance, who joined in none of the sports ; 
and these were of the friendless. As soon 
as he had entered the place, the young play- 
er was surrounded by several of his fellow- 
prisoners — some curious, some abusive, and 
all apparently thieves outright, for they pre- 
sently snatched from him whatever they 
could lay a hand on, that had been spared in 
the examination of the constables and turn- 
keys ; and this they did with such thorough 
artifice, he could not see by whom it was 
done. However, when they had discovered 
he had nothing more they could readily de- 
prive him of, or saw better entertainment 
elsewhere, they left him to his own reflecti- 
ons, which, it may well believed, were none 
of the comfortablest. 

Tired of the noise and ribaldry of his 
companions — their fierce oaths, and coarse 
vulgar manners, the young traveller took to 
observing those who kept aloof. Some of 
these appeared to be of a much higher rank 
than the other ; and with one he soon made 
acquaintance ; for it was impossible for any 
well-disposed person to behold the counten- 
ance of William Shakspeare and not feel in- 
clined to be on friendly terms with him ; and 
from this person he quickly learned the 
names and characters of most of his fellow- 



prisoners and in return was told how he 
came to be among them. 

" Ah, worthy sir," said the stranger, " you 
have been placed here by the same meddle- 
some person as hath imprisoned me — to wit, 
Master Recorder Fleetwood, who seeketh 
by over-business, to pass with her highness's 
sage counsellors, for a famous, loyal, and 
notable zealous officer. I have been thrust 
here merely because he chose to suspect me 
of the high crime of being of the Catholic 
faith, and of attending to the rites and sol- 
emnities of such religion ; and for no greater 
offence than this, divers worthy gentlemen 
who have been by him so ignominiously 
treated. Some sent to one prison — some to 
another ; and all punished with heavy fines 
and grievous imprisonment." 

" I marvel such outrage upon justice 
should be allowed," observed the youth, 
warmly. 

" I grieve to say such things are grown 
too common to make marvels of," replied 
his companion. " Perchance the Queen and 
her chief ministers are not disposed to coun- 
tenance such pestilent tyranny ; indeed, I 
question they ever hear of it in any way 
like the truth ; but such is the unhappy 
state of things in the city in consequence of 
the meddlesomeness of this same tyrannical 
recorder, that for a man to dare attend the 
service of the religion he conscientiously 
believeth to be the true one, he shall be ac- 
counted the worst of villains ; and for one 
that cometh to any poverty and hath not a 
friend in the world, he is forthwith thrust 
into prison, to consort with felons and the 
vilest of characters. All this while, almost 
under the very noses of these zealous offi- 
cers, are to be found houses where cutpurses 
may be met with by scores, teaching their 
art to young boys, and enjoying of their ill-got 
booty in every manner of drunkenness and 
riotous infamy, and they are left undisturbed 
to do as they list." 

" And how long, think you, worthy sir, ua 
poor victims of such intolerable wrong, shall 
be kept in this horrid place ?" inquired the 
other. 

" Truly, there is no knowing," answered 
his fellow-prisoner. " If you have a friend 
at court who will take up your cause, 'tis 
like enough you will soon get your liberty ; 
but if you are not so provided, there is no 
saying of what length may be your imprison- 
ment." 

This was but sorry consolation for the 
young traveller, and it left him nothing but 
an endless prospect of bolts and bars, and 
stone walls. The time came for the prison- 
ers to be locked up for the night in separate 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



909 



cells, and a sullen fellow of a turnkey con- 
ducted William Shakspeare to a most dis- 
mal-looking narrow dungeon, furnished with 
nothing save a little straw, a jug of water, 
and a loaf of bread. Long as had been his 
fast, he felt no desire to break it ; but the 
bed was welcome, and he flung himself on 
it with a heart overburthened with most un- 
happy feelings. A famous ending had his 
glorious anticipations come to ! The visions 
of greatness that could awhile since scarce 
be spanned, save by imagination, were now 
cribbed within a cold narrow cell. All Ms 
fine hopes that a few days before looked to 
be heir apparent to the brightest honors of 
genius, now must needs put up with straw 
for lying, bread and water for victual, and 
bare stone walls for lodging. To say he 
was not cast down at such ill fortune, were 
to depart from the truth strangely, for in 
very honesty, he was in a desperate sad- 
ness — as will be found all very sanguine 
natures when they come to find their high 
expectations overthrown ; and assuredly he 
had some reason, for when he should have 
his liberty was most uncertain, and to a free 
aspiring mind like his, confinement in such 
narrow limits was hardly to be endured. 

But it soon struck him, that despondency 
would do him but small service, and the only 
way to get off the unpleasantness of his pre- 
sent strait, was to bear it patiently. He lay a 
thinking what he should do. He cared not 
how soon he got away from his present com- 
panions — for he had already had enough of 
them, and determined as the first thing to let 
his old schoolfellow, Tom Greene, know 
where he had been placed, that if by his 
means his liberation could be effected, it 
might be done with all convenient speed. — 
In this he overlooked the difficulty there was 
of his getting any communication conveyed 
from Newgate. Had he any sufficient bribe, 
there would be some chance of it, but in his 
penniless state, he was like enough to re- 
main where he was till doomsday, ere his 
friends could know of his hapless case, 
through the assistance of his jailors. For- 
tunately, of this he was ignorant, for he pre- 
sently fell to more agreeable thoughts, and 
a% he was in fancy fondling his dear chil- 
dren — weary with trouble and exhausted by 
fatigue, he fell into a deep sleep. 

Here, in this noisome dungeon, he was 
again visited by the glorious dreams of his 
early days. The place became a most fair 
landscape, beautifully garnished with ravish- 
ing sweet blossoms, and the whole neigh- 
borhood filled with a fairy company, as 
choicely apparelled as beautifully featured, 
singing as delectably and dancing with as 



delicate a grace as ever ; and, as usual, 
brighter than them all shone her who seem- 
ed their queen, and she regarded him with a 
very marvellous kindness, led the others to 
do him all imaginable gentle courtesies, and 
in music of exquisite pleasantness sung him 
such comfortable words as appeared to fill 
him with greater hope than he had known 
his whole life long. But besides this, she 
addressed him with language of counsel, to 
the effect he would keep his nature unsul- 
lied by evil doings ; pointing out the profit 
of honorable behavior, and assuring him of 
the notable truth, that he who seeks for fame 
never can hold it for any time, save with pure 
hands and a noble heart. 

Then she bade him look in a certain di- 
rection, and there he beheld the figure of 
himself, done to the very life, seeming to be 
hungry, weary, and a prisoner as he was — 
anon the scene changed ; he had his liberty, 
but he was struggling with manifold hard- 
ships, one following on another so closely 
there was no rest for them, and each press- 
ing with exceeding severity it seemed a mar- 
vel how they could be tolerated ; they lasted 
a long space, but gradually appearances 
looked more favorable ; the prospect became 
brighter, the scenes changed rapidly from 
one delightful landscape to another, till it ap- 
peared as though a whole world of splendor 
and happiness lay open to his view. From 
one quarter the applause of assembled thou- 
sands were shouted in his ears ; from ano- 
ther came the commendations of whole mul- 
titudes of the learned ; here, in some hum- 
ble hearth-side, resounded the honest praises 
of the poor and lowly ; and elsewhere from 
the hall, the bower, the garden, and the grove, 
plaudits as fervent were breathed from 
gallant knights and honorable fair ladies. — 
Certes he would have been glad enough to 
have dreamt such a dream as this all his 
days : but a rough voice and a rude shake 
put it to a sudden ending, and starting up he 
found one of the turnkeys standing over 
him with a lanthorn, his ill-featured counte- 
nance forming a most revolting contrast to 
the sunny faces he had gazed on in his vi- 
sion. 

" A murrain on thee, wilt thou never 
wake ?" exclaimed the jailor sharply. — 
" Why, thou sleepest as though thou hadst 
no hope of sleep again. " Marry, and 
thou takest such rest the morning thou art 
to be hanged, they must needs put thee to 
the rope in the midst of it." 

" What want you with me ?" inquired the 
prisoner. 

" Thou must along with me with all 
speed," replied the man. 



910 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



a For what purpose, I pray you ?" asked 
the youth. 

"Purpose, quotha, how should I know ?" 
said the jailor. " Mayhap 'tis the pillory- 
mayhap the stocks — mayhap a goodly whip- 
ping ; they be the only purposes that travel 
to Newgate, I'll warrant. But come along, 
I tell thee, I can allow of no tarrying." 

Believing it useless to say anything more, 
William Shakspeare rose and followed his 
guide through numberless narrow passages 
so dark he could scarce see his way along 
even with the help of the lantern his com- 
panion carried before him, the jailor grum- 
bling at every step, and his prisoner in a mood 
hardly more social, from having been dis- 
turbed in such pleasant dreaming. From all 
he could gather from the sulky turnkey, his 
being led to another part of the prison boded 
him no good ; and he supposed it was to re- 
ceive some degrading punishment or ano- 
ther, such as is commonly bestowed on per- 
sons whose chief crime happeneth to be 
their poverty. 

In such manner the two arrived at a door 
in a distant part of the building, which the 
jailor opening, bade the other enter by him- 
self. On gaining admission into the cham- 
ber, the latter found three persons seated to- 
gether, whom he took to be his judges going 
to sentence him to the dreaded punishment. 
One was a very severe looking personage, 
from whose aspect he could gather but few 
hopes, and was clad somewhat in jailor 
fashion, with sundry large keys at his belt. 
The others had much of the gallant in their 
appearance, and possessed countenances 
that savored considerably more of humanity. 

" An' it please you to leave his examina- 
tion to me, I will have the truth from him 
speedily," said the first to his companions ; 
and then turning sharply to the young 
prisoner, commenced questioning him after 
the following fashion, the other answering 
as follows : — 

" Fellow ! what's thy name ?" 

" William Shakspeare." 

" Where dost come from ?" 

" Stratford on Avon, in Warwickshire." 

* How long hast been in London?" 

" Only a few hours." 

" What brought thee here ?" 

" I came to be a player in the company of 
Master Burbage at the Bankside." 

"Now Master Turnkey, this evidently 
proves him to be no vagrant," observed one 
of the gallants. 

"I pray your worship stop awhile," re- 
plied the jailor. " These fellows have some 
famous fine story always at their command- 
ment. O' my life, I do believe, were you to 



examine the most notorious rogue under my 
hands, he would presently make himself out 
to be as honest a man as any in the city. 
Let me ask of him a few more questions." 
Then turning to his prisoner, he added — 
" How long hast been a player ?" 

" I cannot say I have ever been a player," 
answered the other. 

"There, I said I would presently make 
him show himself for what he truly is — a 
masterless man, and no player !" exclaimed 
the turnkey, exultingly, to his companions, 
and then turning sharply to the prisoner, 
added — " Prithee have done with thy coney- 
catching ; I am not to be so caught, my 
young master. Thou saidst but a moment 
since thou wert a player, and now thou hast 
the impudency to declare thou hast never 
been a player. What dost mean by that, 
fellow?" 

" I mean just what I said," replied Wil- 
liam Shakspeare, undauntedly ; " I have 
many times played in plays ; but as I have 
done it solely for my own amusement, I could 
not consider myself a player, who playeth 
only for his own living." 

" Truly, a just distinction," said one of 
the gallants. 

"A. monstrous fine story, I'll warrant," 
exclaimed the turnkey. "But if there be 
any truth in what thou hast advanced, per- 
chance thou wilt name some person of re- 
pute who will testify to thy honesty." 

" Very readily," replied the prisoner ; 
" Thomas Greene, a player at the Globe, who 
hath his lodging at the sign of the Phoenix, 
in Bucklersbury, where I was proceeding 
when I was taken hold of by the constables 
and conveyed here ; he will vouch for me 
at any time, for he hath been my school-fel- 
low ; as have also the younger Burbage, 
Hemings, and Condell, other players at the 
Globe." 

" Marry, players must make but sorry 
vouchers, for, methinks, they be little better 
than vagroms," observed the jailor. 

" The persons named I know to be of a 
very fair character," replied the gallant who 
had before spoken. " William Shakspeare, 
allow me to ask you one question ?" 

" Any number, if it please you, sir," an- 
swered the prisoner, charmed with the cour- 
teous manner of his interrogator. 

" Have you lost anything since your arri* 
val in London ?" 

" I have lost all I had," replied the other. 
" The constables deprived me of what they 
could lay their hands on, and the prisoners 
here in Newgate took from me what was 
left. I should have cared the less, if they 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



911 



had spared me certain writings I had about 
me." 

" What sort of writings were they ?" 

"Verses chiefly." 

" Were they your own composition ?" 

" They were." 

" Is this one of them ?" inquired his ques- 
tioner, placing a paper in his hand. 

" Indeed it is, and the one I last wrote of 
them all," replied the young poet, glancing 
at his own lines, as if glad to have them 
back. 

" I am convinced of it," added the other. 
" It was picked up by my companion, Master 
Edmund Spenser, on the spot where you 
had been struggling with the constables." 

" I deem myself wondrous fortunate in 
having been there at such a time," said 
Master Spenser, warmly. " And having 
read its worthy contents, I hurried to my 
noble and esteemed good friend here, Sir 
Philip Sydney, and succeeded, as I expected, 
knowing his truly generous disposition, in 
interesting him to seek you out, and deliver 
you from your undeserved imprisonment." 

William Shakspeare was surprised and 
delighted beyond measure, at hearing of 
names he had for some time looked up to as 
the most honorable in the kingdom, and ex- 
pressed himself very gratefully for the trou- 
ble they had been at on his account. But 
the matter rested not here. He presently 
walked out of Newgate, with his two famous 
new acquaintances, without hindrance from 
the jailor, for they had brought with them 
the Earl of Leicester's authority for his li- 
beration, which none dared gainsay : and 
shortly after, to the infinite satisfaction of all 
parties, he found himself seated by the side 
of his early patrons, Sir Valentine and Sir 
Reginald, at the house of Sir Philip Sydney, 
by whom he was . very kindly and liberally 
entertained. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

To you I have unclasped my burthened soul, 
Emptied the storehouse of my thoughts and 

heart, 
Made myself poor of secrets ; have not left 
Another word untold which hath not spoke 
All that I ever durst, or think, or know. 

Ford. 
Give me a key for this, 
And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 

Shakspeare. 

"Bar* can I trust thee ?" 

" Ay, my lord, with your heart's deepest 



secret; and the grave itself shall not be 
more silent than your poor page." 

" I do believe thee. I have tried thee long, 
and found thee the faithfullest honest crea- 
ture master ever knew. That thou lovest 
me I am assured. I have had good proof 
on't. I thought there was not one heart in 
which I could meet the slightest sympathy, 
but in thee there are signs of such great 
abundance as make me amends for the un- 
feelingness of others. My spirit is weary of 
long-suffering. My health is broken. 1 
cannot disguise from myself I am sinking 
fast. It therefore becometh necessary I 
should procure some one to perform for me 
those offices I shall soon be disabled from 
attempting. To do this I must betray a 
secret I have kept as jealously as if my 
whole life depended on its preservation ; and 
in none can I put faith, save only thee. 
Thou canst serve me if thou wilt, as page 
never served his lord before ; but if the duty 
should be distasteful to thee, as 'tis very like 
to be, I hold thee free to refuse ; and if after 
what I am about to tell thee, thou canst look 
on me no more as one worthy to be thy mas- 
ter, I will honorably provide thee with all 
things necessary for thy living elsewhere*" 

" My lord, I am in heart and soul a crea- 
ture of your own ; and whatever service I 
can render necessary for your safety, de- 
pend on it, it shall be done faithfully and 
well, according to my poor ability." 

This conversation took place between 
the Lord de la Pole and his page, after one 
of the fearfullest of those fearful fits to 
which the unhappy Earl was generally sub- 
ject, when he was left alone in the mourn- 
ing chamber. It was evident, as he had 
said, that his health was fast declining, for 
his right noble countenance looked more 
haggard than it was wont ; and his dark 
lustrous eyes appeared to be rapidly losing 
the fire which had so brightly lighted them. 
His raven hair too had been thinned of its 
luxuriance, and all about him bespoke that 
breaking up of the constitution, which long 
continued grief marks its victim for the 
grave. His youthful companion wore a si- 
milar melancholy, doubtless caused from 
constant observation of his lord's sufferings, ' 
and this gave a very touching expression 
to his handsome boyish features, which in- 
creased greatly whenever he chanced to 
turn his gaze upon the Earl. The latter, 
still in his mourning suit, sate in the library 
before mentioned ; and Bertram, in vest- 
ments of the same color, seated himself at 
a short distance, where he remained in an 
attitude of the profoundest attention, and 
with an expression of the most intense in* 



212 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



terest, whilst the Earl proceeded with the 
promised narration. 

" Of my family, methinks I need say no- 
thing," commenced he ; " the greatness of 
the Suffolks, of which I am a branch, must 
be sufficiently known, but the fame of their 
power and nobleness so influenced my early 
life, I could not rest till I had done some- 
thing worthy of the name I bore. My 
youth was spent in foreign wars, under the 
most famous leaders ; and whenever I heard 
of any one celebrated for deeds of arms, I 
sought all ways to surpass him ; nor would 
I be satisfied till my pre-eminence was ac- 
knowledged. But this was by no means 
the whole of what I did. I had been well 
instructed ; a ad perchance, I may add, I was 
ever of a well-disposed nature, whereof the 
consequence was, I took especial heed my 
conduct elsewhere should be of a piece with 
my achievements in the field. Honor was 
my idol — honor I worshipped : in no case 
could I be prevailed on to meddle in any 
matter wherein honor was not clearly con- 
spicuous to all men's eyes ; and to the same 
extent that I strove carefully to attain every 
title honor could bestow, I was jealous that 
my right to it should have no questioning. 
None could be more desirous of good opinion. 
To hear myself well spoke of, was an in- 
finite pleasure; but to have any one's ill 
word, to be ridiculed, slandered, or misused 
in speech, fretted me beyond measure. May- 
hap this was a weakness ; but whatever it 
was, it kept unslacked in me the impulse to 
exert myself to gain a lasting reputation, till 
the name of De la Pole stood, as I proudly 
believed, second to none in every commend- 
able quality. 

" I pass over my labors, to build me up 
this goodly reputation : suffice it to say, I 
returned to my native land in the full vigor 
of manhood, and at the court of her High- 
ness Elizabeth was speedily recognized, as 
what I had sought so earnestly to be. 
Hitherto I had thought nothing of love ; my 
career of honor left me no time for tender 
dalliance, or else I was indifferent to the 
charms of such fair creatures as I had seen ; 
but amongst the queen's ladies there was 
one, whose youth, beauty, character and sta- 
tion, united to form, as I then thought, the 
noblest damsel in the realm. In her, fame 
had left no one part which envy might as- 
sail ; and fortune had surrounded her with 
such prodigality of gifts, as if to show how 
delighted she was in having so worthy an 
object on whom to bestow them. Methinks 
'tis almost needless to say she had suitors. 
She had broad lands ; she was of one of the 
powerfu lfamilies of the kingdom ; and she 



appeared as peerless in conduct as she was 
in person ; and such attractions could not 
fail of bringing to her feet a sufficiency of 
wooers. I had heard much in her praise 
before I beheld her ; but ere I had an hour's 
acquaintance, I doubted she had been done 
justice to. Still I kept aloof from the crowd 
by whom she was always surrounded, and 
satisfied myself with observing her at a dis- 
tance. Every day I saw her she seemed to 
grow more admirable ; and each relation I 
heard of her exceeded the preceding one, 
towards proving her wondrous well disposed- 
ness. 

" A message from herself brought me at 
last to her side — a message so expressive of 
compliment, I attended her summons with 
more pleasure than ever I had known from 
similar commendations, gratifying as they 
had always been to me. Once there, it ap- 
peared as though I must there stay. At first 
she would scarce allow me to be anywhere 
else ; but in a fair interval, I found myself 
under so strong a charm, nowhere else would 
I remain could I avoid it : in brief, I loved 
her. Some months afterwards, I gained 
from her, that long before she had seen me 
she h?.d ioved me for my reputation. After 
a delicious sufficiency ' of most exquisite 
courtship, my happiness seemed to be com- 
plete, when I received her in marriage. In 
a little while, I believed my real felicity had 
only commenced, so much did my enjoyment 
then exceed all that I had known before. 
Every day she evinced in her character 
some new and admirable feature ; the more 
I saw of her, the more cause saw I to con- 
gratulate myself I had been blessed with so 
rare a partner. Her love for me looked to 
be mingled with an honorable pride, that 
made it all the more flattering to one of my 
disposition. None could seem so exceeding 
content— none could have appeared so truly 
affectionate. It may be easily imagined, my 
love of praise at this time partook largely 
of a desire of having my wife as famously 
commended ; in fact it was the same identi- 
cal feeling, for I looked on Lady Blanche as 
the best and dearest part of myself ; and I 
wished to see her pre-eminence in every 
good quality universally acknowledged, be- 
cause any contrary opinions might reflect 
unfavorably on the other portion of me. 

" At this period to add to her other pow- 
erful claims upon my love, she promised to 
become a mother — an event I looked for- 
ward to with an interest which exceedeth 
all conceiving. Then it was there came on 
a visit to me a young kinsman of mine. I 
had heard rumors of his being of a wild 
reckless disposition ; and that he bore him- 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



218 



«elf more carelessly than became any one 
Wishing to be honorably thought of. I liked 
not this. It grieved me that one in any way 
related to me should be so ill reported. One 
day I took him aside and told him what I had 
heard to his disadvantage, but he swore so 
solemnly he had not deserved what was said 
of him, that I could not help believing he 
had been maligned, as he declared, by false 
envious persons. I then counselled him to 
marry some worthy woman, which would 
put a stop to such slanders for the future, 
and pointed to the happiness I enjoyed as 
the best inducement to it he could have ; but 
he answered somewhat confusedly, that some 
often considered themselves exceeding happy 
from ignorance of matters-, which, when 
known, would make them the miserablest 
persons in the world. Thereupon I said 
such might be the case, but as regarded my- 
self there could be no possibility of such a 
thing. He replied very earnestly, ' long may 
you think so,' and with a deep sigh left me 
to my own reflections. 

" My kinsman had ever shown to me a 
marvellous frank and social spirit; but of 
late I had noticed that he had rather avoided 
me — gazed on me with a countenance full 
of pity, and when he talked, spoke with an 
ambiguous and mysterious fashion, of which 
I could make nothing, save a lamentation 
that villainy should be so fairly disguised. I 
marvelled, and not without an undefinable 
uneasiness, at such sort of speech, but though 
I pressed him to explain himself, he would 
only shake his head, and say it was a thing 
he had not the heart to do. Following close 
Upon the heels of this, he would oft regret 
that so noble a gentleman as myself should 
be so grossly imposed upon ; and that, out of 
extreme love for me, those who knew of the 
cheat should be forced to allow of its con- 
tinuance. All these hints and inuendoes, 
and the mysterious manner in which they 
Were uttered, in time produced in me a most 
fearful state of anxiousness and disquietude. 

" It looked as though some extraordinary 
mischief was impending, known only by 
this kinsman, who liked not the office of 
breaking such ill news, but in what quarter 
it threatened, or in what shape it was to ap- 
pear, I was completely at a loss ; and what 
made the matter worse, so seemed likely to 
remain. 

"At last he dropped something concerning 
of my dishonor. I fired at the word. My 
whole nature was stirred as if with a mighty 
earthquake. We were alone. I presently 
declared to him did he not tell me on the in- 
stant the cause of what he had said, I would 
elay him where he stood* He begged and 



prayed most movingly I would let him off a 
task he so hugely misiiked, but the more 
earnestly he strove to excuse himself, the 
more fiercely I insisted on his declaring to 
me whatever there might be to say. Then 
he added with extreme seriousness, that the 
consequences must rest with me — that I was 
hurrying on to meet my misery; but if I 
would force the secret from him, that I must 
give him my assurance to take no measures, 
or to show to any one a knowledge of it, 
till he had given such proofs of its correct- 
ness as he had at his disposal. This I sol- 
emnly promised. My ears drunk in with 
horror the tale he told me ; it was that once 
being out late he had observed a gallant at 
the dead hour of the night ascending by a 
ladder of ropes to the Lady Blanche's cham- 
ber — so strange a sight made him . marvel 
exceedingly, and he stopped to see what 
would follow. The gallant entered the 
chamber, and there remained upwards of 
an hour. When he again appeared at the 
window there was a female in his company, 
and they there embraced very fondly. Then 
he descended to the ground and made off, 
and the ladder was immediately drawn up 
into the chamber. I felt as if I could have 
torn my intelligencer limb from limb ; for it 
angels had sworn matter of the like ten- 
dency, I would not have credited a word of 
it ; but I dissembled so much of my passion 
as to ask him if he recognized the female 
he saw at the window. He said he did, for 
he had such view of her as could not mis- 
lead him. I bade him without fail confess 
to me who it was. He replied on no ac- 
count could he do so, as it might lead to ir- 
reparable mischiefs : and added that he had 
gone to the same place at the same hour 
every night since, and had witnessed the 
same proceedings. 

" But I would have the name ; and by dint 
of threats, and repeated promises to behold 
the proofs he spoke of, I gained it from him. 
It was the countess. This I had anticipated 
from the foregoing ; but on hjs confirming 
my suspicions, I contented myself for the 
present with determining in my own mind 
to bestow a proper punishment on so vile a 
traducer. However, I demanded of him to 
lead me to the spot where he had seen what 
he had related, fully convinced I should there 
disprove every particular of his relation. Till 
the hour appointed I kept myself as quiet as 
I could, though my restlessness must have 
been evident to all. 1 said to none what I 
had heard. The countess retired to her 
Chamber somewhat earlier than usual, but 
this I ought to have looked for, knowing the 
state in which she was. Her manner w»» 



314 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



in no way different from the ordinary, save 
she would have it I ailed something, assert- 
ing she had rever seen me look so strangely, 
and imploring me to take heed of my health. 
To one, like myself, who placed such im- 
mense importance on honorable opinion, 
what had been told by my kinsman was like 
enough to produce very terrible consequen- 
ces. Certes I would not allow of its possi- 
bility ; yet, for all that, I was filled with ap- 
prehensions almost as unendurable as the 
most perfect conviction could have been. 

" To my great relief, midnight arrived, 
and wrapping ourselves in large cloaks, my 
kinsman and I proceeded behind some trees, 
at a convenient distance from the Lady 
Blanche's chamber window. The night 
was somewhat dusky ; but not as I thought, 
dark enough to prevent our seeing objects 
as far off as was required. There I stood 
with the full intention of punishing my 
companion's treachery as speedily as it might 
become manifest. Having waited a consid- 
erable time and seen nothing, I had just 
commenced denouncing, with the fiercest 
bitterness, his baseness in striving to impose 
on me with so improbable a tale, when he 
caught hold of me forcibly by the arm, cry- 
ing 'hush!' and pointed in a certain direc- 
tion. To my exceeding astonishment 1 then 
beheld a man, closely wrapped up, stealing, 
with extreme cautiousness, towards the 
house. My wonder became the greater 
when I observed him. stop exactly under- 
neath my wife's chamber window, and clap 
his hands thrice ; and nought could exceed 
the strange amazement I was in when I no- 
ticed a female open the window and throw 
out a ladder of ropes, on which the gallant 
mounted rapidly — the two caressed at the 
window with every sign of mutual fondness, 
and the next moment the ladder was drawn 
up, and they disappeared. 

"I could not very plainly distinguish the 
features of the lady, but the figure was man- 
ifest beyond all mistaking. No one in the 
house was in the same state ; and the dress, 
too, was equally evident. It was the count- 
ess. The horror, the shame, the rage, the 
indignation with which I was filled at this 
discovery, made me incapable of motion — 
nay, I stood breathless, as though I had been 
turned to stone. My senses were a com- 
plete whirlpool of furious passions. I knew 
not what to be about : all in me bespoke a 
confused, bewildered, desperate madness. 
My kinsman asking me what should be 
done, roused me to a proper consciousness. 
I bade him remain where he was, and if the 
gallant, whoever he might be, sought to es- 
cape by the window, to fall upon him and 



hold him fast till I returned. At that be 
drew his sword, and swore very earnestly he 
should not escape alive. I then hastened 
into the house. All slept — or appeared to 
sleep. There was a deathlike quiet in every 
part of the mansion, that seemed in marvel- 
lous contrast to the wild riot in my breast. 
I gained the door of my wife's chamber. 
For the first time I had so found it, it was 
locked. This discovery added fuel to the 
fire. I strove with all my might to break it 
open. It was too strong to be so forced, but 
the violence of the shock I had given it 
brought my wife to it presently. She in- 
quired, in some seeming alarm, ' who was 
there ?' I answered, commanding her to 
open the door immediately. It was done. 

" On my entrance she complained some* 
what of my disturbing her rest so strangely. 
I gave a rapid survey of the chamber, and 
not finding him I sought for, I fixed a fierce 
look on my wife, who was gazing on me as 
it seemed, in the confusion of conscious 
guilt. At this moment I heard the clashing 
of swords, and running to the casement, 
observed my kinsman fighting furiously 
with the same person I had seen enter the 
countess's chamber. The ladder of ropes 
had been left attached to the window, and I 
was proceeding -to descend by it, when my 
faithless wife caught hold of my arm, and 
implored me not to venture myself into any 
danger. I took this as a crafty design to 
assist the escape of her paramor, and with 
violent execrations rudely thrust her from 
me, and, as rapidly as I could, descended 
the ladder. Ere I had got to the bottom I 
beheld my kinsman fall and his opponent 
take to flight. I pursued, thirsting with 
the horriblest vengeance, but at the distance 
of about a hundred yards, to my infinite 
rage and disappointmeig;, I beheld him mount 
a fleet steed and ride off at a pace that left 
all pursuit hopeless. 

" I returned to my kinsman, and found 
him bleeding, and from his manner, appear- 
ing to have been badly hurt. I assisted him 
into the house ; but this took some time to 
do, for he complained at every step, that he 
could scarce endure the motion. I at last 
got him to his chamber. I found the house 
in the same quietness as it had been when I 
had entered it a short time previous ; and its 
undisturbed state gave me i hope I might 
still conceal my dishonor from the world — a 
hope I eagerly caught at. 1 extracted from 
my wounded kinsman a solemn oath, that 
what he had known and seen should never 
pass his lips ; then proceeded I to the cham- 
ber of a servant of mine, who had lived all 
his life in my family, ind in whose fidelity 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



215 



I could place implicit confidence. I called 
him up, and as briefly as I could, acquainted 
him with what had transpired. He readily 
enough promised to do whatever I might 
require at his hands. I then sent him to 
call up my kinsman's servant, whilst I pro- 
ceeded to my lady's chamber. I found her 
lying on the floor senseless. I placed her 
in her bed. In a short time, she began to 
exhibit signs of consciousness, and with it 
gave me reason to believe she was about to 
become a mother. Thereupon I hastened 
to the stables, saddled me a horse, and rode 
at the top of his speed to the nearest mid- 
wife ; and blindfolding her, and taking every 
possible precaution, that she should not 
know where she was going, I brought her 
back with me. She did her office. As soon 
as I became aware of the child's birth, I 
snatched it from her hand, and hurried with 
it to the next chamber, where my faithful 
Adam was waiting as I had desired, and to 
him I gave it, with strict commands that 
instant to drown it in the deepest part of 
the Avon, which he vowed to do in such a 
manner as should prevent the slightest clue 
to discovery. Then I hurried the midwife 
away with the same secrecy with which I 
had brought her. 

" On my return, Adam acquainted me 
tha»t he had fulfilled my intentions to the 
very letter, wbich gave me inexpressible 
satisfaction, for there was at least a riddance 
of one witness to my dishonor. To the false 
woman, its mother, I had resolved on satis- 
fying my just vengeance by a punishment 
worse thin death. None of the domestics 
were yet stirring, and I gave orders on no 
account should any be allowed to go to 
their lady's chamber, on the plea she was 
in so bad a state she was not expected to 
live. Thus I prevented her being seen by 
any of the domestips for several days, during 
which time my kinsman was confined to 
his own chamber by the hurt he had receiv- 
ed, and therefore remained in as perfect ig- 
norance of what was going on as the rest. 
In the meanwhile, with the assistance of my 
faithful Adam, every thing was privily being 
done as I desired. It was reported by him, 
that the countess was daily getting worse, 
and at last, to their infinite great grief and 
sorrowing, it was given out she was dead. 
A sumptuous funeral was prepared. I had 
every sign of mourning placed about the 
mansion ; and those signs I have never al- 
lowed to be removed. But before the per- 
formance of the funeral obsequies, I had 
secretly removed the countess from her 
chamber to another part of the building, 
which had hitherto been scarcely ever used. 
14 



" Here was she shut up close from all 
knowledge, save Adam and myself. He hath 
never seen her from the date of her im- 
prisonment till the present time, nor hath 
she since then been allowed to behold any 
human being but myself, her so deeply in- 
jured husband; for such was my intended 
punishment. All common necessaiies she 
had, but her clothing was reduced to a coarse 
mourning habit. Thus I had secured my 
honor, but as I speedily found, at the ex- 
pense of my peace of mind. Lady Blanche 
made but one attempt to turn me from my 
purpose, and that was at the birth of her 
offspring ; but finding it needless, she never 
after sought to move my commiseration with 
a single word, and seemed to have resigned 
herself to the justice of her sentence. At 
first, I took a sensible satisfaction in show- 
ing myself to her, clad in the trappings of 
woe. I declared to her what I had done, 
and told her she was as dead to me as she 
was to the world ; but in consideration of 
the virtues she had assumed, my mourning 
for her should only cease with my life. She 
bowed her head submissively, and replied, 
she was well content it should be so since 
I had so willed it ; but before any very long 
time had passed, I began to have doubts 
that the manner in which I had endeavored 
to keep the secret of my dishonor, was less 
dishonorable than would have been its pub- 
licity. An act which vengeance had not 
allowed me to see in its proper colors, now 
stood before me in all its horrible injustice. 
I could easily reconcile my conscience to 
any punishment of a guilty wife, but the 
murder of an innocent poor babe seemed 
incapable of any justification. 

" Nought in this world can exceed the 
fierce struggles I have had to satisfy myself 
with the deed; but conscience, instead of 
being overpowered by them, appeared to 
grow the stronger after every encounter. 
Previously, my dishonor, great as it might 
be, was occasioned by no fault of mine own, 
and by some, I doubted not, my reputation 
would have stood in no way affected by it ; 
but so ruthless a murder as that I had plan- 
ned and put in practice, I felt was a crime 
of the blackest die, the whole guilt of which 
was mine, and if it was made public, I be- 
lieved I should be condemned and shunnem 
of all men. Remorse pursued me wherever 
I went. Sleeping or waking the deed haunt- 
ed me. I was perpetually goaded with the 
reflection that Urban de la Pole, who had 
won so many titles of pre-eminence, had 
now made himself irrevocably on a level 
with the basest and vilest in the land. Yet 
all this time I sought as urgently as ever to 



*1» 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



excuse myself, by every manner of argu- 
ment. Sometimes I succeeded, but only for 
a brief space ; and again I was tortured by 
the same dreadful feelings of self-condem- 
nation. 

"Years passed on ; but every year ap- 
peared to increase my sufferings, and time 
added to my misery, till it moved me like 
a madness. During this long space the 
countess bore her imprisonment without a 
murmur — she never once complained of her 
privations — she never once sought to re- 
proach me for such stern usage of her — she 
never once by word, look, or sign intimated 
to me the slightest desire to change her way 
of life. Whenever I presented myself to 
her, she wore a contented submissive look ; 
which through twenty years of rigorous con- 
finement hath remained the same, I found 
out at last, that instead of punishing her I 
was punishing myself. My sufferings were 
becoming intolerable, whilst "she did not 
seem to suffer in any manner. Still I at 
all times noticed in her an expression of 
countenance which I felt deeply, but I can- 
not describe. It seemed to appeal to me 
more strongly than the most conspicuous 
Bhow of wretchedness could have done; and 
yet it was not one of wretchedness. It in- 
variably made me, on my leaving her, ask 
of myself, why I continued to bury her in 
bo merciless a manner ? and then followed 
a raging storm of conflicting opinions for 
and against her, in which remorse for the 
murder I had perpetrated took its full share. 
But in the end, I felt that death alone had 
the power of affording her release. 

" My kinsman, although he had got hurt 
entirely in his zeal for me, I could not bear 
the sight of. I know not why it was, but I 
looked on him as the cause of my misery. 
He it was who had first wakened m$ from 
the dream of happiness and honor in which 
I had been indulging; and I thanked him 
not for his painstaking. When he was well 
of his wound, I hastened his departure ; and 
though he doth occasionally pay me visits, 
the only part of them that pleaseth me is 
when he turneth his back to be gone. 
Since thou hast been with me I have seen 
nothing of him, for which I am infinitely 
thankful ; but I am in daily expectation of 
hearing of his arrival. His nature and mine 
can have no sort of assimilation. He never 
comes but he goads me into frenzy with his 
consolations and condolences, and a thou- 
sand foolish speeches that call to my mind 
my dishonor and my crime. Now I dread 
his presence worse than ever, for the fangs 
of remorse have worked in my heart such 
deep wounds, methinks such probing as his 



must needs destroy me quite. It is with 
the knowledge of my growing weakness, 
and noting that my faithful Adam is getting 
old apace, and witnessing thy extreme af- 
fectionateness, that I came to the determi* 
nation of putting such confidence in thee as 
to require thy attendance on the countess 
in place of myself. 

" Thou hast not sought this secret of me. 
I have seen such vouchers for thy honor- 
able nature that I could trust thee, as I now 
do, with the custody of my very soul. But 
remember, as I told thee, that if thy disposi- 
tion revolteth at the idea of serving a mur 
derer, I hold thee free to go at any time, 
and will take careful heed thy going shall 
do thee credit. As for myself I can only 
say, could a thousand years of severest suf* 
fering undo the deed, I would set about it 
with a cheerful spirit. Now tell me, I pri- 
thee, what thou art inclined to do. I offer 
thee no reward for staying, and doing me 
this great service, save my undivided love 
and most absolute gratitude ; shouldst thou 
choose to go, I will enrich thee for life 
Make thy choice." 

" My lord you surely cannot doubt my 
choice," replied Bertram, in a most winning, 
affectionate manner. " I do as sorely la- 
ment the deed that hath been done as can 
you ; but our lamentations will never lessen 
its enormity. Still from what I have just 
learned, I cannot help perceiving you have 
had monstrous provocation ; but provoca- 
tion that justified the crime I cannot say — 
for methinks there can be no justification 
where there is a crime — or no crime where 
a justification can be allowed. Neverthe- 
less, I must surely be made of those base 
materials, were you twenty times as guilty 
as you are, were I to desert you after you 
have put such entire confidence in me. Be- 
lieve me, my Lord, my love for you is of 
such a sort that I desire of all things to serve 
you in honesty and faithfulness my whole 
life through; and shall think my fortune 
desperate, indeed, when it cometh to me in 
such ill shape as my being forced to leave 
so kind a master." 

The Earl gave no answer to this earnest 
and loving speech, unless it were replied by 
his looks ; which, truly, appeared to be full 
of right eloquent expression. He presently 
continued : — 

" Thou hast had opportunity for noticing 
that a portion of this book-case hath been 
ingeniously contrived to be a secret door, 
known only to myself and my faithful 
Adam. This opens into a passage, beyond 
which is a chamber, which is no other than 
the prison of my false Countess. There for 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



217 



twenty years she, a daughter of one of the 
noblest families, hath endured such priva- 
tions as the commonest menial scarce ever 
is forced to resort to. I would have thee 
now go to her and acquaint her with my 
desire thou shouldst attend to her wants in 
place of myself."' 

The page readily arose to fulfil his er- 
rand, and the secret door being opened he 
passed through it. Now he experienced 
most strange feelings — an infinite dread and 
dislike of appearing before this dangerous 
bad woman, who had done such terrible 
mischiefs. He could not tolerate the in- 
famy she had brought on herself, knowing, 
as he did, the noble nature of the man she 
had so basely wronged, and therefore thought 
not her confinement to be too great a pun- 
ishment for her crime. He therefore pre- 
pared himself to meet a woman whom he 
should thoroughly detest at the first glance 
— one whose attractions must have faded 
under the rigor of such long imprisonment, 
and whose state, the lack of ordinary at- 
tendance had made slovenly in attire and 
uncleanly in person. He pictured too, in 
his mind, her prison to be exceedingly dirty, 
cheerless, and neglectful. His surprise may 
be imagined, when he entered, where every 
thing was as comfortable, neat, and orderly 
as in the best apartment in the mansion. 
Nothing could be so cleanly as seemed every 
part of the chamber, and the only sign of" 
cheerlessness it had was its being entirely 
covered up with black cloth. 

If he was so greatly surprised with the 
prison, he was far more so with the prisoner. 
He beheld before him a lady of extreme 
beauty, looking to be in the very prime of 
life. She was dressed simply in a black 
robe, but the most splendid apparel could 
not have shown to more advantage her ma- 
jestic figure, or give such admirable con- 
trast to her noble countenance. She was 
sitting reading of a book at the entrance of 
the page ; but as soon as she aoticed him 
she started up in a great marvel. Her won- 
der was not without cause, for not having 
seen any human baing save her lord for so 
long a space, she could not but be infinitely 
astonished at the presence of him she now 
beheld. Truly, at any place Bertram was 
no common sight, for by this time the hag- 
gard, sickly expression which long sickness 
and suffering had left on his features, when 
he first entered the house, was changed to 
one of health and comfort, wherein the 
softtsss of early youth was made more win- 
ning by the owee*. and pensive melancholy 
with which his handsome features were 



overcast. Now, with his intelligent eyes 
radiant with wonder as he gazed on the 
beautiful woman before him, he looked more 
handsome than ever he had been whilst in 
his present abode. His hair, in rich profu- 
sion, fell down even to the white falling 
bands spread open round his neck, which 
added much to the picturesque expression of 
his countenance, and his close-fitting suit 
was famously adapted to display to the most 
notable advantage the grace and symmetry 
of his limbs. 

After having thus wondrously gazed on 
each other for many seconds, the Lady 
Blanche at last broke the strange silence by 
inquiring of the youth his errand. He spoke 
it with so gentle a courteousness that none 
could help being charmed with him, but the 
countess took his message in very sorrowful 
part. 

" I pray you, tell me, young sir, for what 
cause is it my lord refuseth to see me ?" in- 
quired she in a most urgent manner. 

" His health, lady, is getting to be in so 
decayed a state, it preventeth him," replied 
the page. 

" Alack !" exclaimed the Lady Blanche. 
" I have marked his changed aspect a long 
time past. Whilst I was allowed sight of 
him I cared not for being shut out from the 
world, for from the first time I heard of his 
gallant name, he hath been all the world to 
me. But now I feel I am punished indeed. 
I beseech you, gentle sir, implore him for 
me that I may attend on him in his illness. 
No servant shall serve him more humbly or 
truly, than his once happy and honored 
Blanche. Ah, me ! How wildly do I talk ;" 
added the Countess, suddenly changing her 
ardent, impassioned manner, to one of strict 
patience and submissiveness. " Nay, if it 
is my lord's will, it must needs be. Tell 
him, gentle sir, I am ready to fulfil his 
wishes." 

When Bertram left her, his lord's faith- 
less wife, whom a short time before he had 
felt so disposed to detest from his heart, he 
found he could not bring himself to mislike 
her in any manner ; nay, she had awakened 
in him feelings of a direct opposite tendency. 
He marvelled a guilty woman could bear 
such rigorous imprisonment so long a time 
and it have no evident effect on her, he mar- 
velled more, with the knowledge of her infa- 
mous evil doing, she should wear so noble, 
bright a countenance ; but all this could not 
erase from his mind the impression of his 
lord's narrative. He remembered the ter- 
ribleness of the wrong she had wantonly 
done so noble a gentleman, and strove to 



SIS 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



fortifv his heart against the entrance of 
those feelings, her language, looks, and 
manner, had created in him ; nevertheless, 
he found his thoughts taking to themselves 
the shape of this question — " Surely, this 
lady, is not so wicked as I though!, her." 

On returning to the earl, he told him every 
syllable the countess had uttered in his 
hearing, at which the former appeared ex- 
ceeding moved, asked divers questions, hur- 
riedly and anxiously, as to how she spoke, 
and what she had said ; and every answer 
manifestly did the more increase his uneasi- 
ness. For a while he seemed lost in thought 
— but it was easy to see from the changing 
expression of his aspect — his deep sighing, 
and violent hard breathing, that some such 
struggle as had been but too common with 
him, was going on in his nature. Bertram 
stood observing "him with a sincere, sweet 
sympathy, expressed in every feature of his 
countenance; but saying never a word, 
knowing how useless was speech on such 
occasions. After a time the Earl recovered 
sufficiently to express what he would have 
done. 

" Methinks, 'tis full time this punishment 
should cease," said he in a somewhat fal- 
tering voice. " I can endure it no longer. 
This marvellous sweet patience of hers 
subdues mc. My vengeance is gone, of my 
honor I am careless. Go, tell her, she is 
free to go where she will, so long as I may 
never have sight of her again." 

The page hastened to do his lord's bid- 
ding, his thoughts by the way, busy in the 
entertainment of every possible prejudice 
against that false bad woman who had 
brought such fearful sufferings upon her 
generous, noble-hearted husband. He de- 
termined to look on her as a very monster — 
an ungrateful, base creature, lost to every 
serise of womanly excellence ; and expedite 
her removal from the mansion by all means 
in his power. He presented himself to the 
lady a second time, and despite of his recent 
stern determinations, delivered his message 
as gently as though he spoke to some 
person great in his respect. The Countess 
heard it in evident emotion. Her cheek 
grew pale and then red, of a sudden — her 
lips quivered somewhat — but in the end her 
whole countenance expressed a lofty pride 
and noble majesty, which made her young 
companion marvel more than ever. 

" It cannot be ;" replied she at last. 
" Were I again to appear in the public eye, 
perchance my lord's reputation would suffer ; 
he, having for so long a period allowed it to 
he closed against me. If my character hath 



gone, my death is no fiction. To what my 
lord hath sentenced me I patiently submit. — 
Unless I can be wholly restored to his affec- 
tions, which, methinks, 'tis vain to hope, I 
wish here to live out my days, to the last his 
poor prisoner, and humble, loving wife : and 
I will pray for him very earnestly on the 
knees of my heart he may enjoy every man- 
ner of happiness that is most to his liking. 
I beseech you, gentle sir, tell him this much 
from me — that I will endure with all proper 
submissiveness, whatever he shall think of 
letting the world know of my existence : and 
the only favor I would ask of him is, that 
he will let me here remain till I have become 
the thing he hath feigned. " 

Again there was a change in the page's 
thoughts of his lord's faithless wife ; his feel- 
ings were now in her favor as strong as ad- 
miration could make them. Her language, 
her look, her bearing, savored so marvellous 
little of guilty consciousness, that he could 
not help saying to himself on leaving her, 
" Surely this lady cannot have done the 
wickedness with which she is charged." 
He acquainted the Earl with what had pas- 
sed in consequence of his message, where- 
upon, the unhappy man seemed more moved 
than before, for he presently broke out into 
a wonderful great passion of self accusa- 
tions. 

" Every word of hers cometh upon me 
like a scourge !" exclaimed he, when his 
frenzy had somewhat abated, " I have made 
a^terrible mistake ; I have been torturing of 
myself all this while, instead of punishing 
her. O reputation ! reputation ! what a 
poor idol of brass thou art !" And' in this 
strain went he on, so much to the exceeding 
grief of his faithful Bertram, that he knew 
not what judgment to come to. He could 
not believe his lord had misstated to him 
anything, having had such manifold proofs 
of his extreme honorableness of nature, 
therefore he must needs consider the Count- 
ess to be the very basest wretch breathing ; 
and yet he could not thiri'k ill of that lady, 
after having beheld in her as he had beha- 
vior so thoroughly opposed to an unworthy 
disposition. He considered much of the 
matter ; his reflections suddenly turned into 
a new channel, and, as he left the chamber, 
he put this question to himself — " SurHy, 
there is some huge villainy at the bottom -rf 
these woeful doings !" 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



919 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Thk company were lightly the lewdest in 
tlje land — apt for pilfery, perjury, forgery, or 
any other villainy. 

Greene (Groatsworth of Witte) 

" Oh twine fresh roses round thy brow 

And pledge the wine-cup high ; 
Leave fears and cares to misers' heirs, 

Leave tears to those who sigh. 
For is there neath heav'n a bliss so divine 
As that which now beams in the sparkling 
wine ? 

Brighter than gems 
In kings' diadems, 
And fragrant as buds upon odorous stems. 

Then fill to the brim ! Fill to the brim ! 
Fill whilst such joys on the green earth abound, 
'Ere Pleasure grow pensive or Friendship 
look dim, 

Fill to the brim around ! 

" Oh twine fresh roses round thy brow, 

And pledge me once again : 
Till we have quaff 'd the rosy draught 

And warmed the heart and brain. 
Our life is but short and our pleasures but few, 
And time makes us old when our youth is but 
new : — 

Wine then alone, — 
To all be it known, — 
Can grant us new life and a world of our own. 

Then fill to the brim ! Fill to the brim ! 
Fill whilst such joys on the green earth abound, 
Ere Pleasure grows pensive or Friendship 
looks dim, 

Fill to the brim around ! 

" Bravo, Robin ! O, my life, our sweet 
Robin is a brave songster !" 

" Excellent well sung, as I live, Master 
Greene ; and as Kit Marlowe most aptly 
calleth thee, thou art our own delectable 
sweet Robin." 

" Nay, Chettle, we will not have him so 
mean a bird ; he is a swan at the very least." 

" Ay, truly, Master Lodge, by this hand, 
a good thought. A swan — a very swan ! 
What " sayest, Peele ? What sayest, Kyd ? 
What sayest, Nash ? Is not Greene as right 
famous a swan at singing, as though he 
were the mighty Jove himself, going a bird- 
ing after the delicate fashion told in the old 
story ?" 

"Prithee keep to the Robin, good Kit!" 
replied the singer, in the same merry humor 
with 'his boisterous companions ; methinks 
the conceit of the swan is somewhat dan- 
gerous, it being a bird so nigh in feather to 
a goose." 

" Nay, nay, there is a huge difference in 
Uie holding of the head," cried Kit Mar- 



ilowe, laughingly; "so if it chance to be 
' thou art only but a goose, if thou wilt but 
have thy neck stretched, thou shalt presently 
be the braver bird, beyond all contradic- 
tion ?" 

" Then is Tyburn a choice place for 
swanhopping ?" observed Lodge, amid the 
uproarious mirth of his associates. 

" More wine ! more wine ! tapster !" 
bawled Chettle ; " 'Slight ! after such mov- 
ing praise of thy liquor, thou shouldst empty 
thy casks for us, and charge nothing." 

" Ay. by Bacchus, that thou shouldst, out 
of sheer gratitude," added Nash. 

" Truly my masters ; and for mine own 
part, I care not," said a miserable-looking, 
threadbare knave, in a most abject manner, 
" indeed, I care not in any sort of manner ; 
yet, as I cannot live unless I sell my liquor 
at some profit, I humbly beseech your wor- 
ships, pardon me, that I would rather live 
and sell, than give away and be ruined." 

These were a party of play-writers, met 
together round a rough table, in a mean 
chamber of a common inn, near the Globe 
playhouse, on the Bankside : they seemed to 
be much alike as regarded their humors, be- 
ing a set of as wild, licentious, unbridled 
roysterers, as might he met with in any tav- 
ern in Christendom. It was manifest on a 
little stay with them, that they had more wit 
than discretion, and less honesty than either ; 
for their talk was either of tricks they had 
practised, when reduced to any shifts, or 
abuse of certain players they misliked, or 
slander of certain writers, whose success 
they envied. Their dress smacked of a 
tawdy gentility ; in some instances showing 
signs of shabbiness, that could not be hid, in 
others of expense that could not be afforded ; 
for these worthies were of that unthinking 
sort, who feast to-day and fast to-morrow ; 
carry their purses well lined on a Monday, 
and ere the week hath half gone, have not a 
groat. So improvident were they, that they 
would have their canary for an hour or two's 
enjoyment, though they should be reduced tc 
take their custom to the water-bearer, for 9 
month after ; and of so little principle were 
the greater number, that as long as they 
could get such indulgences as they most af- 
fected, which were often of an exceeding 
disreputable sort, they cared not a jot whe- 
ther they had or had not in their power the 
means of paying. Nevertheless, divers of 
them were men of approved talent in their 
art ; but this, methinks, should draw on them 
greater censures ; for when men have know- 
ledge, and use it not honorably, they should 
be accounted infinitely more blameab/e, than 
such as offend through ignorance. 



290 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



" Ha ! ha ! by this light a most admirably 
conceited jest, my dear boy," exclaimed 
Greene, who, by the way, was a marvellous 
different person from Tom Greene the player. 
" But what dost think of this for a goodly 
example of coney-catching. There hath 
been a certain publisher to me, who is known 
well enough to all here, requesting of me to 
write him something. I asked of him of 
what kind, and thereupon he spoke so mov- 
ingly of the great good — to say nought of 
the great profits that come of pious writings, 
that on the instant I offered to compose a 
repentance of my monstrous sinful life, 
which should be so forcibly penned that the 
wickedest persons that live should take ex- 
ample of it, and straightway fall into godli- 
ness. At this surely no man was ever in 
such huge delight as was my saint-like sel- 
ler of books ; and he offered me such fair 
terms for a pamphlet of this tendency, that 
I closed with him presently. Since then, I 
have commenced my repentance ; and I can 
say most truly few have ever repented them 
their sins with such profit as have I ; but 
the jest of it lieth in this — that my gain by 
such labor must needs lead me into fresh 
outbreaks, which at my need will form 
goodly materials for another repentance, still 
more cunningly to be wrought out for the 
edification of strayed sheep, which will again 
enrich my exchequer for advancing me 
through a new career of revelry, to be fol- 
lowed of course by the most pitiful repent- 
ance of any. And in this manner mean I 
to live sinning and repenting, and repenting 
and sinning, till there shall be no good to be 
reaped by it, either for myself or any other." 

Riotous shouts of laughter, and a famous 
store of sharp witty saying, not worthy of 
being written, accompanied this speech ; and 
there was not one there present who did not 
appear to regard it as fine a jest as ever they 
heard. 

" O' my word, but this is delicate coney- 
catching indeed !" cried Nash, joining 
heartily in the same humor. " When I am 
hard pushed I will not fail following such 
exquisite proper example ; and I only hope 
I shall have grace sufficient to turn it to as 
notable great advantage." 

" This showeth the utter foolishness of 
such matters," exclaimed Kit Marlowe — a 
noted infidel. " And proveth that if you 
bait your discourse sufficiently with relig- 
ion, you may have in your power as many 
gulls as can get within reach of it. But 
hearken to the rare trick I played my hostess 
when I was reduced to such shifts for lodg- 
ings I scarce knew where I should find my 
lying for the next day. This woman was 



coarse and fat, and a desperate shrew ; and 
I being somewhat backward in paying her 
pestilent charges, she opened her battery on 
me at all hours, and at last swore very 
roundly I should to prison and out of her 
house, did I not settle what I owed by a cer- 
tain day. Now it fortunately chanced so to 
hap, her villainous house had two doors, one 
front and one back, and she being usually 
in a front chamber, put me upon practising 
my wit in such a manner as should most 
punish her, and most enrich me. So I pre- 
vailed on a broker of my acquaintance to 
purchase of me all the goods in my lodging, 
on the condition that they should be removed 
when I desired. Having got the money the 
day before the day appointed for my paying 
the grasping old avarice my hostess, I went 
to her chamber, and told her I had come to 
settle with her, her charges, which put her in- 
to so rare a humor, that I kept her a full hour 
talking and jesting, with the money in my 
hand. Then thinking the broker had as I 
designed, removed the old dame's chattels 
by the back door and got clear off, I begged 
she would let me have of her some sort of 
memorandum of the cancelling of my debt, 
and quickly commenced counting of my 
money on the table. My request she thought 
so reasonable, she lost not a moment in seek- 
ing to gratify it ; but the instant I heard her 
proceeding to an upper room where I knew 
she kept her pen and ink, I whipped up the 
money and was out of the front door ere I 
could draw breath. Truly, it must have 
been most absolute and irresi stable sport, to 
have noted the visage of my chap-fallen 
hostess when she discovered not only the 
loss of her money she was so desperate 
about, but the departure of her lodger leav- 
ing of his lodging bare to the very walls." 
This narrative was received with more 
riotous acclamations than the preceding, 
and divers others of the company told the 
like sort of tales, to the excessive mirth of 
the rest, who looked upon them as most ad- 
mirable jests ; and thus they kept drinking 
and showing of their several humors. Aftet 
sometime they commenced talking of the 
players, and not one was named who in their 
thinking possessed the slightest share of 
merit. Greene was a mere ape — the elder 
Burbage a scare-crow — the younger a poor 
fellow that marred everything he spoke, 
for lack of sense to know the meaning on't, 
and Hemings and Condell very twins of 
stupidness, who could do nought but strut 
and fume, and blunder through such parta 
as they undertook to play ; and so they pro- 
ceeded with nigh upon all the players, 
accompanying their opinions with marvel- 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



aai 



kmfl lamentations their plays should be so 
ill handled. 

" Hast marked this new player, my mas- 
ter ?" inquired Greene. 

" What, him they call Shakspeare ?" 
asked Marlowe. 

" Ay," answered his companion. " Didst 
ever note so senseless foolish a person ] 
Marry, if there shall be found in him a 
greater commodity of brains than may serve 
him to truss his points withal, I have an 
infinite lack of penetration." 

" Slight, my dog would make a better 

{)layer!" exclaimed Marlow contemptuous- 
y. " Didst ever see any finger-post hold 
itself so stiffly ? Didst ever find a drunken 
tinker so splutter his words ! He hath a 
little grace in his action as a costard-mon- 
ger's jackass ; and as for his aspect, I could 
get as much dignity out of a three-legged 
stool." 

" Well, well, he cannot do us any great 
harm by his playing," observed Lodge. " He 
is only put into the very poorest parts that 
are written." 

" Which he maketh a monstrous deal 
poorer by his wretched performance," added 
Greene. 

" But who is this Shakspeare ? inquired 
Nash. 

" A very clown," replied Marlowe. " A 
fellow that hath left the plough's tail and 
his brother clods of the soil, in such utter 
conceit of himself as to imagine he shall 
become a famous player." 

" He deserveth the whipping-post for his 
monstrous impudence," said Peele. 

" Give him a cap and bells, and dress him 
in motley," added Kyd. 

" Nay, I doubt he hath even wit enough 
to pass for a fool," cried Greene, amid the 
contemptuous laughter of his companions ; 
and so went they on turning the edge of 
their wits upon the new player, till the door 
opening, there entered with young Burbage 
the very person they were so sharp upon. 
In an instant the whole company hailed " the 
poor fellow that marred everything he spoke, 
for lack of sense to know the meaning on't," 
as though none could be so well esteemed of 
them. 

" Sit thee down, my prince of players !" 
cried Marlowe. 

" Excellent Dick, I drink thy health," ex- 
claimed Greene in the same extreme friend- 
liness of manner. 

" A p : nt of wine, tapster, for Master Bur- 
bage ' ' shouted Lodge, who had a new play 
in nana, and thought it good policy to be in 
11 generous humor with the manager's son. 

"Truly a good thought," added Nash, 



who was more famous for commending of 
another's generosity than of taking it as an 
example. " It would be a notable remiss- 
ness in us, to one to whose admirable choice 
playing we stand so much indebted for the 
success of our play, were we not at all times 
to welcome him with open arms." 

" Truly, I am beholden to you greatly," re- 
plied young Burbage, sitting down amongst 
thcr., by the side of his companion. " I 
shall be glad enough I warrant you, to do 
my best in your honorable service, in espe- 
cial when it cometh to be followed by such 
fair wages. But your bountiful goodness 
hath emboldened me to ask a liberal welcome 
for my friend here, Will Shakspeare, whose 
true social qualities, perchance, will lead 
you, ere long, to thank me for his acquaint- 
ance." Thereupon every one of the com- 
pany greeted the stranger with as absolute 
cordiality as ever was seen. 

" O' my word, I have taken great note of 
you, Master Shakspeare," exclaimed Mar- 
lowe. " You promise well, sir ; by this light 
you do ! I have not seen a young player 
take to his art so readily since I first beheld 
a play." 

" Indeed you have the requisites, young 
sir, of a complete master of playing," added 
Greene. " You will shine. You will be 
more famous than any of your day. You 
will show the whole world how far an Eng- 
lish player can exceed all that hath been 
done of the ancients." The others followed 
in the same vein, as if one was striving to 
exceed the other in the extravagance of 
panegyric : to this the young player replied 
very modostly, as he at that moment believed 
them to be sincere. This modest manner 
of his seemed to convey to his new associates 
an idea that he was of a poor spirit, as well 
as vain enough to take to himself anything 
in the shape of compliment, so they com- 
menced covertly making of him their butt, 
passing sly jests at his expense, and in pre- 
tended compliments seeking to be terribly 
satirical ; all which he took in such a man- 
ner as seemed to strengthen them in their 
small opinion of him. Do*ubtless, this made 
them somewhat bolder with their wits. 

" I pray you now, listen to me, Master 
Countryman," said Marlowe, as if with a 
monstrous show of affectionateness. " I 
will give you famous advice, I promise you. 
As to your walk, methinks 'tis well enough 
— it showeth at least you are inclined to put 
your best leg foremost, if you knew which 
it was ; but methinks you are somewhat too 
long in making up your mind which should 
have precedence. As to your look, let it 
pass — it cannot be bettered — I defy any one 



222 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



to show such a face for a player. Then for 
your arms — to make them swing like the 
sails of a windmill, is a new grace in motion, 
and, I doubt not will take exceedingly with 
the groundlings : but, perchance of the two 
styles you most affect, that in which you 
seemed you were holding of a plough, is the 
most delicately natural. I commend it 
wondrously, only I would have you turn out 
your elbows more than you do — it seemeth 
as if you determined to make for yourself 
elbow-room. Lastly, of your voice— O' my 
life, I never heard a carter with a better 
voice ; and the way you deliver your speech- 
es, as though you were talking to a horse, 
must be infinitely effective on a stage : but 
I would have you speak louder — let the ap- 
prentices in the topmost scaffold know you 
have lungs, and can use them to some pur- 
pose. To keep up a good bawling is highly 
commendable." 

"Ay indeed, that is it," added Greene, 
after the same fashion : " some there are of 
the sock and buskin who play a feeble old 
man with the throat of a boatswain ; but 
when you come on as a courtier, looking so 
much the sturdy hind, one fancieth every 
moment you will be feeding of hogs or 
thrashing of corn, which to my thinking is 
exceeding more wonderful." 

Others of their companions went on in the 
same biting humor, the object of it all the 
whilst, to the marvelling of young Eurbage, 
who saw the drift, — taking what they said 
with a show of notable simplicity, without 
offering a reply. At last when he thought 
they had exhausted their wit he spoke. 

" I thank you heartily my masters, for 
your excellent counsel," replied he very 
gravely. " Believe me I do not undervalue 
it, knowing that the very ' meanest things 
that breathe may oft do 'a wondrous fine 
service — as witness the cackling of the 
geese that saved Rome. Some of you have 
been good enough in commending of my 
perfections, to speak famously of several of 
the notablest parts of my body ; but divers 
qualities of them have been left untold : the 
which, for the lack of a better chronicler, I 
will now seek to give you some notion of. 
He who spoke so movingly of my legs, forgot 
to add that on an occasion, they could kick 
an impudent shallow coxcomb to his heart's 
content. Of my face it is as God made it. 
Perchance it would have been better gifted, 
had any of such persons as are here given 
it tbe benefit of their greater skill, for I 
doubt not I could prove in a presently, some 
of you possess a very marvellous facility in 
tiie malting of faces. As for my arms,, 
doubtless they have a sort of swing with 



them, I having in me so much of the sturdy 
hind; but though sometimes it is my hap to 
come where the hogs feed themselves, the 
thrashing part of my supposed duty I am 
ready enough to perform, as long as there is 
such necessity for it as there appeareth at 
present. And with regard to my voice, 
Master Marlowe, if I have in my speech at 
times past appeared, as though I were talk- 
ing to a horse ; surely, at this moment, there 
is in it a notable likelihood I am speaking to 
an ass." 

No speech was ever received with such 
astonishment by any company, as the pre- 
ceding. Every man of them seemed as 
much confounded as though they had raised 
a hornet ; and, as the concluding sentences 
were so pointedly directed to the foremost 
of them in their sharp attack upon the so 
despised "Master Countryman," he was 
manifestly the, most touched by it of them 
all. 7 

" Fellow, dost adddress gentlemen in this 
style ?" exclaimed he, as if half inclined to 
be in a rage. 

" Truly I think not," was the cutting 
reply. 

"Nay, 'tis all a jest of his, Master Mar- 
lowe," said young Eurbage, endeavoring to 
keep the discomfitted wits in something like 
good humor, " he is the very admirablest 
fellow at such things that can be found 
anywhere ; and try him at it when you will, 
you shall find him so expert at his weapon, 
there is no getting the better of him." 

" O' my word, I canaot say much about 
getting the better of me," observed William 
Shakspeare, laughingly. " But can I serve 
any of this worthy company, assuredly they 
shall have the best of what ability I "have." 
Such of the worthy company that had been 
in any way inclined for a quarrel, after suffi- 
cient note of " the sturdy hind," thought 
proper to look as if they were famously 
amused ; and in honest truth, whether it 
was from his natural cheerful humor, or a 
desire to conciliate, the former so entertained 
them with his delectable choice wit, that 
presently the whole place was kept in a roar 
by him. In the midst of this the tapster 
came and whispered to Master Greene. 

" Oh, let him up, let him up," replied he : 
then turning to the company, added, seeming 
in an exceeding pleasant mood, " Here is a 
certain well-known honest friend of mine, 
coming to join us, one Cutting Ball — he 
hath done me many services. Indeed, a 
right excellent good fellow is he, and a 
useful." 

" I promise you," replied Marlowe, with a 
knowing wink, " Cutty standeth by you, out 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



333 



of return for your standing by his fair sis- 
ter." 

" Let that be as it may," cried the other, 
joining in the general laugh, " but to Master 
Ball I owe much ; for he is so vigilant a 
watch, that he alloweth not a pestilent bai- 
liff to shew 'nis nose within a mile of me ; 
and if any should chance to come, seeking to 
make me their prisoner, Cutty and his fel- 
lows do so pay them my debts, that they are 
glad enough to 'scape with broken crowns, 
for lack of better coin." 

These remarks were put an end to by the 
entrance of the object of them ; but, to the 
surprise of all present, no sooner had he en- 
tered, than young Shakspeare jumped on his 
legs, stared at Cutting Ball, and Cutting 
Ball stared at him, though in a manner as if 
Cutty was somewhat confused. 

"I greet you well, Captain Sack!" ex- 
claimed the former at last ; " I pray you tell 
me, how are your worthy, honorable com- 
panions, Master Sugarsop, and my Lord Cin- 
namon ? Truly I should have been right 
glad had you brought them with you." 
Then addressing Greene, he continued in 
something of the same strain, evidently to 
the prodigious marvelling of the company, 
" Marry, Master Greene, but this same hon- 
est friend of yours, and I, are old acquaint- 
ance. Methinks if I could forget that 
stained velvet doublet, I could not put out of 
my memory a visage that hath so many 
marks to know it by. In brief, your honest 
friend, with two others of a like honesty, de- 
spoiled me a short distance from Loadon, on 
the Uxbrid'ge Road ; and I pray you, make 
your honest friend return me the things he 
robbed me of, else shall I be obliged to in- 
troduce your honest friend to one Master 
Constable, who, if your honest friend shall 
get his deserts, may chance to assist him in 
making the acquaintance of one Master 
Hangman." 

At the hearing this, it was difficult to 
say which looked the most confounded, 
Master Greene or his honest friend ; and as 
for the rest, few of them seemed to take the 
matter very pleasantly. 

" Plague on't, Cutty, how couldst act so 
unworthily !" cried Marlowe, as if in a fa- 
mous indignation. 

',' 'Slight man, 'tis monstrous !" exclaimed 
Nash, looking to be exceeding angered. 

" O' my life ! had I known thee to be so 
•iesperate a rogue, Cutty, I'd have been 
4anged ere I would have tolerated thy infa- 
nous company !" said Lodge, in a like fash- 
Ion. 

" S'blood ! but you must give up what 
you have so basely taken, Master Ball," 



cried Kyd, " we will tolerate no such vil- 
lainy. Restore your ill-got booty, fellow." 

" Ay, truly," added Greene, as stern- 
ly as any of them. " Give Master Shaks 
peare his goods again, I prithee. O, 
my word ! I am ashamed thou shouldst act 
with so thorough a disgracefulness. I in- 
sist that thou give back every tittle of what 
thou hast taken." 

'• Of course ! of course !" shouted one and 
all. 

" I do confess, I made bold with certain 
things belonging to this good gentleman," 
replied Cutty Bail, seeing there was no use 
in denying the robbery ; " but had I known 
he was a friend, I would have despoiled my- 
self rather than have touched ought that be- 
longed to him." 

" I thank you, Captain Sack, or Cutty 
' Ball, or whatever your name may be," an- 
swered young Shakspeare; "but 1 should 
thank you more would you be so good as 
give me back those same things ; for truly I 
stand so much in need of them, I shall be 
forced to get them with the assistance of 
such persons as I just now promised to make 
you acquainted with, should you not return 
them speedily." 

" Ay, without doubt, and I will see to it 
myself," exclaimed Marlowe and others of 
his companions, who appeared equally in- 
tent upon making the thief restore what he 
had stolen. 

" I'faith, I should be right glad enough 
to do it, honorable sir, only in honest truth, 
I have them not," said the thief. 

" By this hand, that shall never pass," ex- 
claimed Marlowe. 

" O' my life, I will have thee get back 
these goods, even if thou hast parted with 
them," cried Greene, with equal earnest- 
ness. 

" Bots on't, so will I if I can !" replied 
Cutty, somewhat sharply, " although I have 
not the honest gentleman's things, methinks 
he shall not have to go far to find them ; for 
I have good reason for knowing, Master 
Greene at this present hath on one of his 
shirts ; and Master Marlowe a pair of his 
hose. Master Peele now weareth his falling 
bands ; and Master Lodge had of me certain 
other articles of linen, which make up the 
whole of what I took." 

Terrible was the confusion of these four 
worthies — who had been so forward in call- 
ing for restitution, at finding that they them- 
selves possessed the plunder : nevertheless, 
with the best grace they could, they prom- 
ised every thing should be restored to the 
lawful owner, protesting most vehemently, 
that when they accepted them, they believed 



224 



1HE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



them to be honestly come by; all which 
their friend Cutty Ball heard with an easy 
impudency, that did in some manner belie 
their assertions; and the young player, 
though having penetration enough to spy 
into the real nature of the transaction, ap- 
peared to be satisfied. Soon after Master 
Burbage whispering to Lodge that the read- 
ing of his new play was fixed for twelve o' 
the clock, took his leave of the party, taking 
his friend with him. 

" I thank thee, Will, for the very proper 
castigation of those fellows," exclaimed 
young Burbage, laughing heartily ; " me- 
thiuks. they would rjow as lief meddle with a 
mad dog, as pi&y their s^».cy humors on 
thee. Surely, never wert a set of insolent 
biting jackanapes so quickly brought to their 
marrow-bones." 

" Truly, they chafed me somewhat, or I 
would not have answered them so sharply," 
replied his companion. 

It may here be proper to advertise the 
reader, that the young player had profited 
nothing by his introduction to Sir Philip 
Sydney, or by his falling in with his old 
friends, Sir Reginald and Sir Valentine, 
he not having informed them of his need be- 
fore they left England for Flanders. Nor 
had his acquaintance with Master Spenser 
as yet availed him anything, for almost as 
soon as they became known to each other, 
that the right famous poet had been forced 
to go a voyage to Ireland. For his becom- 
ing a player, he was solely indebted to the 
exertions of his schoolfellows, who absolute- 
ly forced their manager to make him one of 
their company. This the elder Burbage did, 
and with an especial ill grace, for no man 
relisheth doing any thing against his will ; 
but it was evident he had taken a huge dis- 
like to the young player. He put him into 
playing only such poor characters as could 
gain him no reputation ; and gave him for it 
bo small a wage, that he could not so much 
as find himself a decent living. During all 
this while he had to bear all manner of priva- 
tions, and hardships innumerable, — now at a 
loss for lodging — now for victual — and now 
for raiment ; and yet making so little show 
of the great straits to which he was so often 
reduced, that his true friends knew it not un- 
less by some accident it came to their know- 
ledge. 

This sort of life was a monstrous differ- 
ence to what his golden anticipations had 
made out to him. But he bore his ill-fortune 
with a most cheerful spirit — still as san- 
guine as ever — believing he should yet 
raise for his dear children such a heritage 
as should enrich and ennoble them to the end 



of time. As soon as he found himself in some 
way of settlement, he wrote to John a Combe, 
among other things, inquiring for his off 
spring with all the eloquence of a fond 
father, and of himself, merely saying there 
was likelihood he should do as well as he 
wished : in reply to which he received a 
very comfortable letter, marked with the 
caustic sharpness the writer so much affec- 
ted, yet for all that, betraying such natural 
goodness of heart as was customary with 
him. As the young player expected from 
his knowledge of her character, it also in- 
formed him that his wife assumed the bear- 
ing of one horribly ill-used. This intelli- 
gence brought him to reflect on the amiable 
sweet qualities of the accomplished Mistress 
D'Avenant, whose letters to him — full of fe- 
minine purity and highmindedness — now 
formed the chiefest pleasure his poor fortunes 
set at his disposal. 

At twelve o' the clock he was with the 
rest of the company, on the stage assembled 
to hear the reading of a new play written by 
Master Lodge. The elder Burbage sat in a 
chair, with the MS. in his hand ; his brother 
players, the author and divers of his friends 
standing about him, or getting seats where 
they could. The whole place looked ex- 
ceeding dismal and comfortless. Below the 
stage, where the groundlings were wont 
to stand, was an old woman, busy sweeping 
out the dirt, bitten apples, orange-peel and 
nut-shells, which had there been left. In 
the rooms above, were one or two other such 
remnants of humanity, engaged in scouring 
and cleaning. From one part of the stage 
the hammer of a carpenter was heard, noisily 
enough putting together the materials of a 
castle, — in another, a painter was brushing 
away in a great hurry, to make his canvas 
assume something of the resemblance of a 
deep forest — albeit it seemed the likeness 
did not promise to be very notable. Here 
was a fellow on his knees, polishing of a piece 
of rusty armor ; and there a tailor, in his 
shirt-sleeves, stitching away at a torn doub- 
let. The light came in from the open roof, 
very brightly ; but for all that the building 
had a monstrous miserable sort of look 
with it. 

It was thus situated the Manager read the 
new play — which proved to be a singular 
admixture of ta»lent and bombast — unnatural 
characters — extravagant scenes, and such a 
labyrinth of a plot nothing could be made of 
it : yet despite of these great blemishes, the 
play lacked not merit. There was force in 
the language, and occasionally beauty — and 
amid heaps of confused nonsense, there were 
a few clever touches of nature that appeared 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



225 



he more admirable for being so surrounded ; 
nevertheless, the chief players condemned it, 
and the elder Burbage spoke more against it 
than any. 

" I think the play would do well enough 
were it altered somewhat ;" observed Wil- 
liam Shakspeare. 

" A good jest, I'faith !" exclaimed the 
manager, sarcastically, "what dost thou 
know of plays, I wonder ? Marry, but 'tis 
like thy impudency to give an opinion on 
such a matter !" 

" Truly, I think he knoweth as much of 
the matter as any of us," said Tom Greene. 

" Indeed does he !" cried old Burbage with 
a look of seeming great amazement ; " per- 
chance, Master Clevershakes, thou wilt thy- 
self essay to make this play well enough ?" 

" I doubt not I could so make it ;" replied 
the young player. 

" What intolerable presumption !" ex- 
claimed the manager. " O' my life, Will 
Shakspeare, so vain a person as thou art, 
never met I in all my days. Thou art, as it 
were, new to the stage, and yet thou talkest 
of altering plays for the better, writ by one 
well used to such writing !" 

' I beseech you, Master Manager, let him 
try his hand at it, if he will," said Master 
Lodge. " If I be not hugely mistaken, we 
shall have at least some sport in his altera- 
tions." 

" Ay, let him have it, Burbage ;" added 
Tom Greene ; " Will must needs have a fa- 
mous talent if he can mend such a play as 
this." 

" Wilt take it in hand ?" asked the man- 
ager. 

" Gladly," replied young Shakspeare. 

" Heaven help thee out of thy conceit !" 
cried old Burbage giving him the MS. as he 
rose from his seat. Some of the players 
laughed — the authors sneered, but William 
Shakspeare took the despised play to his 
lodgings full of confidence in his own re- 
sources — and then by altering, omitting, and 
adding, where he thought such was most 
needed, he after many days study, made it to 
his mind. Certes he was glad of such an 
opportunity to distinguish himself, and took 
marvellous pains he should do well what he 
had undertaken. At last he brought back 
the play, and it getting to be known what he 
had assayed, there came that day all the 
chiefest play-writers to have a laugh at his 
expense — even his old schoolfellows thought 
he had promised to do more than he could 
perform. 

" I have brought you here the amended 
play of Master Lodge," said the young 
Shakspeare to the manager — offering him 



tne MS. DacK again. " Perchance you will 
now be so good as read it in its present state. 

" Nay, an' you catch me reading your 
foolish stuff you are cleverer than I take you 
to be," replied the other, and at this the 
play-writers set up a loud laugh. 

" Well, an' you will not do that, mayhap 
you will allow my reading it," added the 
young player, evidently in no way discon- 
certed. 

" Read it or eat it — 'tis all one to me," 
answered the manager ; and again the wits 
had a laugh at the expense of " Master 
Countryman." With this permission Wil- 
liam Shakspeare commenced reading the 
altered play. At first, the players were 
heedless, and the play-writers amused them- 
selves by tittering at the style of the young 
player's reading ; nevertheless, the latter 
read on. As soon as the alterations became 
evident, he had a much more attentive au- 
dience, — the players were surprised — the 
play-writers amazed, and the manager lis- 
tened and stared, as though under an en- 
chantment. He continued the play, the 
faultless delivery of which must of itself 
have been a sufficient treat to any one caring 
to hear an admirable reading : but the pas- 
sages of exquisite sweet poetry — the bursts 
of passion, the powerful sketches of charac- 
ter, and the thrilling interest of the scenes 
which Master Lodge's play now possessed, 
appeared to all present something truly 
marvellous. 

" Shall this play be played, my masters ?" 
inquired young Shakspeare, something tri- 
umphantly by the way, as he noted the effect 
the perusal of it had made upon his au- 
dience. • 

" Played !" exclaimed Tom Greene, in a 
famous pleasure, " I'faith, we shall deserve 
to count for precious asses all our days, 
should we let so gocxlly a play escape us.'' 

" By this light, 'tis the movingest, natu- 
ralest piece of writing I ever heard," cried 
young Burbage, in a like humor. His father 
said nothing : for he was one of those, who 
when they contract a prejudice against a 
person are exceeding slow in getting it re- 
moved ; but he was too old a judge of such 
things not to know the nature of the perfor- 
mance as it stood. As for the play-writers, 
they looked at one another as if each was 
striving to exceed the other in the expression 
of his wonder ; but as Master Lodge, seeing 
he could not help it, acknowledged his play 
had been greatly improved, they confessed it 
needs be so, as the author had said it. As 
all the players were of one mind as to its 
fitness for being played, the parts, were im- 
mediately given out, and a day for a first 



226 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



rehearsal fixed. The most envious of the 
play-writers then went away, consoling of 
themselves with the hope it might be damned. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Some men with swords may reap the field 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield, 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late 
They stoop o fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath 
When they, pale captives, stoop to death. 
Shirley. 

To set a lawe and kepe it nought, 
There is no common profit sought ; 
But above all, natheless, 
The lawe which was made for pees, 
Is good to kepe for the beste ; 
For that sette all men in reste * 

Gower (Confessio Amantis.) 
The villainy you teach me I will execute, 
and it shall go hard but 1 will better the in- 
struction. Shaksfeare. 

I must ask of the courteous reader to wend 
awhile with me in the company of one , of 
whom the historian has said nothing ; but, 
as is ordinarily the case when he hath a 
proper object, he hath not said one half suf- 
ficient ; I allude to that accomplished gentle- 
man, and truly valiant soldier, Sir Philip 
Sydney. He possessed the comprehensive 
mind that could only be fully developed in a* 
wide field ; but, unfortunately it was con- 
tracted to suit the comparative subordinate 
parts he was called on to fill ; and it took 
refuge by idling itself in its leisure, in the 
fashioning of quaint conceits, that suited the 
age in which they were produced, but were 
not enough true to catch the favor of Time ; 
besides which he possessed that truly intel- 
lectual nature which exists entirely free 
from the clay of human selfishness. He had 
no absorbing passion, that suck all into self, 
till the soil becometh to be a mass of abomi- 
nation, that polluteth what it touches. His 
humanity was as different to this as is sun- 
shine to a cloud. There was at one time 
some talk of his being elected to the vacant 
throne of Poland ; but Queen Elizabeth 
would not have him leave her, she held him 
bo high in her esteem. Would he had been 
a king ! what a glorious lesson he would 
have set the community of crowned heads ! 
and, in honest truth, as far as I have seen 
of them they do lack infinitely some such 
teaching. 

It hath been already said, ' that during the 



prosecution of the war in Flanders, Sir 
Philip was sent out as governor of Flushing, 
which was to the huge content of the ma- 
gistrates and citizens. Here he stayed, well 
liked of all persons, his chiefest companions 
being Sir Reginald and Sir Valentine. Hav- 
ving by his wise rule and courteous beha- 
vior won the love of the whole town, he set 
off with the two young knights to join the 
army. Doubtless were all three sufficiently 
desirous of meeting the enemy in a fair field ; 
but the ardor of Sir Reginald and his young 
friend was very properly tempered with the 
prudence and circumspection of their more 
experienced associates. They at last came 
to the camp at Zutphen, where were assem- 
bled with the besieging forces the Earl of 
Leicester, as lord-lieutenant, with some of 
the valiantest of England's chivalry, among 
whom might be named the Lord Willoughby, 
the Lord Audley, the Earl of Essex, Sir 
John Norris, Sir William Stanley, and Sir 
William Russel ; but as soon as they knew 
he was amongst them, they thronged to do 
him honor, with as great show of love and 
reverence as though he were the comman- 
der of them all. The Earl of Leicester pre- 
sently showed himself to be a better courtier 
than a general ; for he did little beyond dis- 
playing his magnificence. 

The siege commenced on the fifteenth of 
September, and wherever there was any 
fighting there was sure to be Sir Philip 
Sydney and his two companions. As yet, 
neither had received hurt ; but what spare 
time he had Sir Philip would spend in his 
tent, putting his papers in order and writing 
his will : and by his sober discourse, show- 
ing he held himself in readiness should he 
fall in the coming battle. But like a careful 
master he took every possible opportunity 
of teaching his disciples a knowledge ot 
their art. He showed to them how the en- 
trenchments were made, explained to them 
the nature of the artillery, and made them, 
familiar with the character and uses of the 
several fortifications. Indeed all that might 
be learned of the properest method of besieg- 
ing a fortified town he taught them in the 
camp before Zutphen ; and he laid it down 
with such clear principles that nothing could 
be so manifest to the understanding, as was 
his teaching. A famous scene was it for 
all young knights. 

Great rows of tents spread far and wide with 
the panoply of war conspicuous about them, 
from which officers at the head of their com- 
panies issued at divers times, some on foot 
and some on horse — some to forage for the 
army in the surrounding country — others to 
cut off the enemy's victual if any such could 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



321 



be found. Then came the great guns and 
the ammunition waggons, with a strong 
guard for the forming of a battery — and par- 
ties of soldiers hastening to relieve those 
working in the trenches. Here and there 
would be seen the captains inspecting the 
different posts or hurrying to their comman- 
ders to acquaint them how matters stood. In 
the distance might be noticed the flames of 
some neighboring village where had been 
some skirmish ; and in another spot a de- 
tachment driving cattle and grain to the en- 
campment — whilst afar off to the verge of 
the horizon, the smiling country looked as 
though such a thing as war was as far from 
them as is Hell from Heaven. 

The enemy were of exceeding force in the 
town, numbering many thousands, composed 
chiefly of Spaniards and Italians, with Alba- 
noys, both horse and foot, well equipped 
with all things necessary for fierce fight- 
ing ; and they had made their works of a 
very notable strength, but they were some- 
what distressed for provisions, which was 
well known to the besiegers, and gave them 
great hopes of overcoming the place. It was 
late one evening, about a week after the 
commencement of the siege, that Sir Philip 
Sydney and his two companions were pro- 
ceeding round the lines to see that proper 
watch was set, and note if the enemy showed 
the disposition to do them any molestation. 
They were afoot and not in their armor. 
The night was somewhat clouded, but there 
was in the sky many signs it would soon 
turn to a clear starlight ; nevertheless, in 
the distance everything lay in great obscu- 
rity, save at the moon's occasional escape 
from her shadowy canopy, when the chief 
features of the landscape became more con- 
spicuous. Sir Philip was very eloquently 
discoursing to his young companions, con- 
cerning of the right famous battle of Azin- 
cour, when to their somewhat astonishment 
he came to a sudden break in his speech. 

" What noise is that ?" said he very ear- 
nestly, as he turned his gaze towards the 
open country. 

" I hear nought but the flowing of the 
waters," replied Sir Valentine. 

" Nay, but this is no such sound, my 

• friend," added Sir Philip Sydney. " Mark 

you those moving objects indistinctly seen 

in the distance, creeping rapidly along by 

the side of yonder hedge ?" . 

" I do see something moving," answered 
the other. 

" Ah, there are many figures, and if I 
mistake not a multitude of carriages of some 
isort," added Sir Reginald, gazing hard 
towards the spot pointed out. 



" True !" exclaimed their companion. 
" and those, figures, my friends, you may 
now plain enough see to be a detachment of 
horse, and those carriages are some hun- 
dreds of waggons, doubtless, of victual and 
other necessaries for the relief of this town. 
They must be stayed, or we are like to lose 
our labor. See," continued he, as he turned 
his piercing glance towards the besieged 
town, on which the moon suddenly threw its 
brilliance. " There are numbers of persons 
bustling about very busily, nigh upon the 
church. Of a surety they have knowledge 
of their friends coming, and are preparing 
to help their approach. Speed you, Sir 
Valentine, to the tent of the lord general of 
the horse, the Earl of Essex, and tell what 
you have seen, that he may have his men in 
readiness ; and you, Sir Reginald, to the 
tent of the Lord Willoughby, on a like errand. 
I will to his excellency, the Lord Lieuten- 
ant, my honorable kinsman, where you can 
say I am gone ; then get you to horse, and I 
will join you anon." 

The three knights, as rapidly as they could, 
returned to the camp, Where they imme- 
diatetely spread the alarm, and the trum- 
pet's shrill alarum presently called up the 
sleeping soldiery ; and then there was a con- 
fusion of running hither and thither, for this 
and for that — the grooms getting ready the 
horses — the knights donning their armor — 
the ensign bearers running to their compa- 
nies — the captains mustering their men. and 
the commanders hastening to the tent of the 
Earl of Leicester for to receive his orders, 
as turned the peaceful encampment that a 
minute or two since sounded of nought else 
but the measured tread or startling challenge 
of the guard, into a very Babel of confused 
noises and thronging multitudes. Sir Philip 
Sydney quickly wakened up his kinsman, 
but ere the latter was in readiness, the com- 
manders came hastening in, desiring to be 
placed where they could reap the most glory ; 
all talking — all pressing — all urgent to set 
out against the enemy without delay. Leav- 
ing these for awhile, I must here describe 
other matters that well deserve mention. 

There was in the camp two notable brave 
gentlemen, to wit, Sir William Stanley and 
Sir John Norris, who a long time back had 
had a quarrel in Ireland, and had been •• 
enmity ever since. It chanced so to h*£ 
Sir William was first ready with his com- 
pany — some two or three hundred strong 
which was of foot, and was sent to stand as 
a bescado, when, as he was on his way, Sir 
John Norris, who commanded among the 
horse, overtook him — being sent to the same 



228 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



service. Then thus spoke these enemies 
one to another : — ' 

" There hath been," said Sir John, " some 
words of displeasure between you and me ; 
but let it all pass, — for this day we both are 
employed to serve her Majesty. Let us be 
friends ; and let us die together in her Ma- 
jesty's cause." Then quoth the noble Sir 
William — 

" If you see me not this day, by God's 
grace, serve my Prince with a valiant and 
faithful courage, account me forever a cow- 
ard ; and if need be I will die by you in 
friendship." Thereupon these brave soldiers 
embraced very lovingly, to the exceeding 
content of all present ; and as soon after as 
might be, Sir William Stanley marched with 
his footmen, intending to take up a position 
at a church in the suburbs, fciit this the 
enemy had entrenched before hand, and there 
lay to the number of more than two thou- 
sand muskets and eight hundred pikes. 
Before he could come to skirmish with them, 
the Lord Audley joined him with a hundred 
and fifty men — in desperate haste to be in 
the first conflict. The fight soon began with 
hot vollies of musket-shot. The English 
pressing upon their opponents at the push 
of the pike, till they drove them into their 
hold ; and then they retreated out of the 
range of the muskets, there to make a stand. 
At this the enemy issued in great strength 
of horse, mostly Spaniards and Italians, and 
at that moment there came up on the Eng- 
lish side, the Lord General of the Horse, 
the Earl of Essex, the Lord Willoughby, 
Sir William Russel, and Sir John Norris, 
and other valiant officers of a like fame with 
their companies ; and these presently charged 
the enemy with such fury, that they were, 
after some hard fighting, fain to retreat to 
their pikes, leaving a famous number of 
dead and wounded, beside some twenty of 
their principal commanders who had been 
made prisoners. 

In this charge Sir John Norris led with 
his wonted valor, but in discharging of his 
pistol it would not go off, which seeing, he 
stroke it at the head of his enemy and over- 
threw him. His associates used their lances 
till they broke ; then plied they their curtel- 
axes with such vigor of arm, that the enemy 
took them to be more of devils than men, 
'-hey were so terrible. 

" For the honor of England, my fellows, 
ollow me !" shouted the Earl of Essex, as 
ne threw his lance in rest, and wherever 
he saw six or seven of the enemies together, 
he would separate their friendship with more 
■peed than might be in any way comfor- 
table to them. But surely of all these valo- 



rous noble soldiers, none so behaved Mm 
self as did Sir Philip Sydney. His two com 
panions kept close to him wherever he 
charged, and with lance and with curtel-axe 
so played their parts, that each was an 
honor to the other. Even in the great ex- 
citement of this hot conflict, Sir Valentine 
thought of his humble, yet noble hearted 
mistress ; and, inwardly resolved to do such 
feats for her at that time, as might any 
knight for the proudest lady that lived. Sir 
Reginald's valor also was impelled by a fair 
lady whom he had left in England, and 
loved since he had last seen the gentle 
Mabel ; but the valor of Sir Philip was all 
for the honor of England. His war cry 
might be heard in the loudest uproar of the 
battle, rising amid the din of the artillery, 
and the shouts, groans, shrieks and cries of 
the wounded, and the righting. 

His lance had long since been shivered, 
and his curtel-axe seemed to have the power 
of Jove's thunder-bolt, for nothing was like 
unto the dreadful destruction he spread 
around. None won so much admiration as 
did he, although every one appeared to be 
endeavoring to signalise himself above the 
bravest of those brave soldiers that were on 
his side. He charged the enemy thrice in 
one skirmish, spreading terror and death 
wherever he appeared ; at last, as he was in 
the very fury of the conflict, he fell to the 
ground, shot through the leg. His fall was 
quickly avenged, especially by Sir Valen- 
tine and Sir Reginald ; and when they had 
beaten back the enemy, they carefully con- 
veyed their wounded friend to the tent of his 
kinsman. All his old associates were pre- 
sently about him, in most anxious suspense, 
whilst the chirurgeon examined his wound ; 
and when it was pronounced to be mortal, 
there was most doleful visages in every one 
present. 

" O Philip, I am sorry for thy hurt !" ex- 
claimed Leicester, as though he was deeply 
affected. 

" O ! my lord, this have I done to do your 
lordship and her majesty service," replied 
that great ornament of his age. Then came 
to him Sir William Russel, who kissed his 
hand, and said with tears in his eyes, 

" O, noble Sir Philip ! there was never 
man attained hurt more honorably than you 
have done, nor any served like unto you." 
And after him, others of that valiant com- 
pany did testify their love and grief after 
much the same moving fashion ; but he an- 
swered them every one very cheerfully, and 
seemed as though he were the only content- 
ed person in the place. As speedily as was 
; possible he was removed from the tent wide? 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPP'.ARE. 



339 



the especial guardianship of his sorrowing 
disciples — the two young knights — to a 
neighboring place called Arnam ; and the 
skilfullest chirurgeons in the army were 
sent to him to see if anything might be done 
to save one whose true greatness could be 
so ill spared. But it was soon seen his 
hours were numbered. Then the priest was 
sent for, that he might have proper Christian 
consolation in his extremity. 

There lay the dying Sir Philip Sydney on 
a couch, supported by pillows, with one hand 
clasping Sir Valentine, — the other laying as 
affectionate hold of Sir Reginald, as they 
knelt beside him in great tribulation — his 
old companions grouped about, looking on as 
though their hearts would break ; and even 
the chirurgeons, seeming by their aspects 
to regard their honorable patient with ex- 
ceeding sympathy. He had already ex- 
plained his last desires, which he had done 
with such singular sweetness of humor and 
quietness of mind, that none, when they had in 
their remembrance the severity of his hurt, 
and the extreme painfulness which naturally 
come of it, could sufficiently marvel. He 
was now intent upon expressing his opinion 
on his approaching death, which he did 
with so much calmness of true philosophy 
that every one present appeared to listen in 
a perfect amazement. At this moment en- 
tered the priest. He had a venerable mild 
countenance, and his bearing was altogether 
that of a worthy minister of the Christian 
Church. 

" Welcome, excellent sir !" exclaimed Sir 
Philip, with the same marvellous cheerful- 
ness he had shown ever since he had re- 
ceived his deadly hurt, " I am heartily glad 
to see you, more especially, because, had 
you not come, I might never more have en- 
joyed the sweet comfort of your honorable 
society. Methinks there can be no dis- 
course so precious, as, when the soul hover- 
eth over its mortal dwelling, pluming its 
wings, as it were, for its last long flight, 
that which cometh of a religious friend. 
Then is the fittingest time of all for grave 
counsel ; — for he that is departing, is like 
to a knight about setting upon a journey, he 
scarce knoweth where, and requireth some 
wiser mind to advise with him, exhort him 
to honorable valor, and acquaint him with 
those infinite delectable consolations that 
spring from a life well spent. Surely wick- 
edness must be very foolishness ; for he that 
is unjust, or doeth any manner of evil, put- 
teth away from him every hope of contenta- 
tion in his - extremity — he can only procure 
for himself a disreputable living and a miser- 
able end ; but what absolute sweet solace 



hath a good man when death claimeth his 
acquaintance ! He looketh back to the 
bright vista of bygone years, and beholdeth 
so fair a landscape, it cannot help being the 
delight of his heart. There lie before his 
gaze charitable thoughts, chaste feelings, 
and noble achievements, blooming like 
flowers in Paradise, whose freshness and 
beauty know no fading ; then when he seek- 
eth to peer into the future, it spreadeth out 
for him such glorious store of starry hopes, 
that it seemeth as though the brightest Hea- 
vens were opening of their treasures to re- 
ward him for his desert." 

" Surely, I have no need here !" cried the 
priest, evidently in some Wondering, as he 
stood by the couch of the dying soldier, wit- 
nessing his extreme patience. 

" O my master ! my fathe 1 ! Alack 'tis 
pitiful, most pitiful thou sho 1 dst leave us !" 
exclaimed Sir Valentine, in a voice scarcely 
audible for the greatness of his emotion. 

" His last hour is come," whispered one 
of the chirurgeons to another ; and this, the 
increasing paleness of his lips in some man- 
ner testified. 

" Yet of all deaths for a Christian knight," 
continued Sir Philip, with the same mar- 
vellous composure, "surely that is mostly 
to be coveted which cometh in defence Oi 
his country. To die in defending the rights 
of the oppressed orphan or wronged widow, 
is doubtless exceeding honorable ; to fall 
whilst advancing the Christian banner 
against the approaches of villainous heathen 
Pagans, must also be a death to be envied ; 
but the enemy's of one's country must needs 
be the oppressor of its orphans, the wronger 
of its widows, and the subverter of its reli- 
gion ; and he who falleth in his country's 
defence, hath all the glory that can be gain- 
ed in the combined cause of liberty and 
virtue. The Spaniard is the ruthless enemy 
of England ; he seeketh her disgrace, he 
seeketh her dishonor ; he would trample on 
her laws, violate her liberties, desecrate her 
altars, enslave, tyrannize, and bring to 
shame all her gallant men and admirable 
fair women, who could not endure his rule. 
Against such an enemy I have received my 
hurt. Surely then I ought to account my- 
self infinitely fortunate ; and you, my friends, 
instead of sorrowing for my ioss, should 
rather envy me my proper ending. 

" Sir Valentine, 1 know you to be a truly 
valiant knight, and a most honorable gentle- 
man," added he, turning his eyes affection- 
ately towards his favorite pupil ; " grieve 
not for me, I beseech you : so much faith 
have I in your well disposedness and gallant 
qualities, I feel convinced you will do fa- 



230 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



raoua credit to my instruction. Believe me, 
1 experience exquisite comfort in knowing 
J leave behind me a young knight of such 
rare promise." 

"Oh, noble Sir Philip," exclaimed Sir 
Valentine right piteously, " O my dear mas- 
ter ! I cannot help but grieve with all my 
heart ; I shall never behold so worthy a com- 
mander." Then the dying soldier addressed Sir 
Reginald and the other officers one after an- 
other, and every one he commended for such 
qualities as he had taken note of ; and each 
he exhorted to continue in the like behavior. 
After this, he courteously and gravely talked 
with the priest on religious matters, and feel- 
ing his end drawing nigher, he asked to 
have his prayers. Thereupon the good man 
prayed by his couch very fervently, Sir. 
Philip joining in such devotions with a pla- 
cid countenan % his lips moving though he 
made no sound , and nothing else was audi- 
ble in the chamber, save the half-suppressed 
sobs of those who could not conceal their 
grief. The prayer was finished, but the lips 
of the dying man still moved occasionally, 
with a sort of indistinct muttering ; once 
only he spoke audibly, and then the words 
were, " For the honor of England," which 
plain enough told what lay next his heart ; 
and these were the last words he was heard 
to utter. His eyes were rapidly getting to 
be more dim, and aspect of a more deathly 
paleness. At last, there was a sound heard 
in his throat, which set every one to hiding 
of his face ; and the bravest commander 
there present did groan outright. 

" In my life I have seen many deaths," 
said the priest, a few minutes after all was 
over, " but never saw I the dying of so esti- 
mable a man, or so Christian a soldier !" 

And thus perished, in the very flower of 
life, one of the noblest examples of chivalry 
England hath produced ; but numerous as 
may have been her heroes, never before or 
since hath she set up one so truly worthy of 
the title. In him there seemed to be ever 
manifest, manhood in its brightest attributes, 
the noblest properties of mind, and the purest 
influences of feeling. His valor was divest- 
ed of that animal dross which is too gene- 
rally found mingled with it, in the shape of 
cruelty, love of strife, outrageous violence, 
or coarse unfeelingness ; and it arose out of 
onu motive, the honor of England, which 
was in his nature a very Pactolus, enriched 
with golden sands. Of the sterlingness of 
b : s Intellect, methinks he hath left good evi- 
dence ; yet it cannot in any way be com- 
pared with what might have resulted from 
euch a source, had he lived to disencumber 
himself of the affectations of his age. But 



of his virtues, surely there cannot tx> such 
excellent witness,— for no knight ever died 
more lamented of the brave, the noble, the 
just, the true and the wise. Old and young 
rich and poor, and all sexes and conditions, 
received the intelligence of his decease with 
the deepest grief. Few men have been so 
loved — none so sore lamented. But- from a 
scene so instructive as the death of so great 
a man, I must now hurry the reader to one, 
which, mayhap, hath also its lesson, though 
never could difference be so complete, as 
shall be found in their chief features. It is 
necessary to say, that the event about to be 
related followed upon the foregoing, after 
some lapse of time. 

The noble, of whom the reader hath al- 
ready some knowledge through his base 
attempts on the poor foundling, sat with his 
ordinary companion in iniquity, the gallant 
before described, in a chamber, which for the 
sumptuousness of its furnishing, might justly 
be styled regal. He no longer swmed as 
though he sought concealment, being d ^ired 
in such gorgeousness as language can give 
but a faint idea of ; his countenance, full of 
confidence, ever and anon brightened <vith a 
social sort of smile, as he listened to his 
dependant. The latter looked more the 
worn-out profligate than ever ; but he was 
more bravely clad than was his wont; 
and appeared as though his infamous ser- 
vices earned him liberal wages. In what 
he spoke there was the triumphant villain 
rejoicing in the success of some foul scheme 
just brought to a foul conclusion — with a 
manner half laughing, half sneering, in re- 
lation to the subject, yet as regarded his 
hearer, marked with a mingled assurance 
and security that sufficiently bespoke the 
nature of his service, and his dependance 
on, his employer. 

The table before them contained vessels 
of wine, with silver cups, and dishes of gold 
filled with dried fruit, cakes, conserves, anc 
other delicates, as if they had been making 
good cheer. The chamber was of such 
dimensions and of so fair a structure, aa 
made it evident it appertained to some prince- 
ly castle, and the battlements and towers 
seen from the windows appeared as strong 
witnesses to the same purpose. The noble 
sat on a richly embroidered chair, in great 
state, resting of his feet on a cushion of 
costly stuff, beside the table, carelessly using 
of a diamond-hafted tooth-pick; and the 
galiant sat over against him on as proud a 
seat, telling the staple of his discourse, and 
making the whilst as famous cheer as, he 
could. 

'Twas well done, if no suspicion fellow it 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



231 



Sir Piers," obsen 3d the former, as if musing 
somewhat. 

" Nay, suspicion is clean impossible, my 
lord," replied the other. " The man is dead, 
and I defy tli3 searchingest pryers to discover 
how he came to his death. As for me, my 
disguise was so perfect, none could suspect 
who I was, and even could that be possible 
— believing me as I affected to be your bitter 
enemy, they would as lief suspect themselves 
of the deed as your honorable lordship." 

" Did he make no outcry ?" inquired the 
noble. 

" Not a whisper," replied the gallant. 

" Was tnere no fierce convulsions ?" ask- 
ed the former. 

"Scarce a struggle!" answered his com- 
panion, " the poison is the most subtle I ever 
heard of. It seemed to have entered into 
his very marrow, ere you could say he had 
well taken it, and left the face unmarked by 
any blackening, or disfigurement, like one 
who dieth of a sudden, without apparent 
disease. Truly, 'tis a notable ridder of ene- 
mies, I knew not so invaluable a mixture 
could be had anywhere." 

" I had it of an Italian woman who was 
reputed the skilfullest compounder of such 
things that ever lived," said his lord care- 
lessly. K But this is not the first trial I have 
made of it. Thou hast managed the affair 
most cleverly I must confess. I would thou 
hadst succeeded as well in procuring me the 
beauteous Mabel." 

" O' my life, my lord, I did all that most 
extreme cunning could accomplish," replied 
his dependant very earnestly. " Some pes- 
tilent thing or another ever thwarted me 
when I thought myself to be securest ; and 
her long interest came, a murrain on't! 
when I believed the devil himself could not 
have snatched her from my net." 

" 'Tis strange, Sir Piers, thou shouldst 
never have heard ought of her since," ob- 
served the noble. 

" Nay, who could have supposed the 
wench would have given me the slip when 
the physicians said she was scarce able to 
leave her chamber," replied the gallant. " I 
have searched for her since then far and 
near, and my man hath penetrated into all 
6orts of places the whole country round 
where it was supposed she might have got 
shelter, but not so much as glimpse of her 
have either of us gained. " 

"She was a noble creature !" exclaimed 
his companion. " I have seen nought to 
compare with her either amongst our court 
beauties here in England, or the lovely 
dames I met during my stay abroad. I 
aever have been so monstrously disappoint- 
15 



ed as in her escape. I would have given 
thousands to have prevented it." 

" By this hand I was never so vexed all 
my days !" added the other with similar 
earnestness. After this there was a pause 
of a minute or so, in which the former seem- 
ed thinking of his loss, whilst the other re- 
plenished the cups with wine, and helped 
himself freely to the tempting cates before 
him. 

" Does that follower of thine know any- 
thing of what thou hast lately done for me ?" 
inquired the noble.- 

"Not a syllable," replied the gallant. 
" He is faithful enough I doubt not, but I 
would trust none in so dangerous a matter." 

" Doth think he hath any suspicion of it?" 

" Not the slightest." 

" Nor any of the menial people about 
me?" 

" 'Tis utterly impossible, my lord, I have 
been so close." 

" 'Tis well," exclaimed the noble. " Thou 
hast managed this matter very delicately, 
Sir Piers. Thou hast proved thyself a true 
friend withal, and I assure thee I will reward 
thee fittingly." 

" I thank you, my lord," replied his associ- 
ate. " You have already bestowed on me 
many marks of your honorable favor, and 
methinks I cannot do enough to show my 
readiness to serve so bountiful a master." 

" Depend on't what I have done is nought 
to what I intended doing," answered the 
other. " Thy knighthood is but a small 
honor to what I can now gain for thee. I 
am paramount in the council, and with her 
highness I have so fixed myself, I can do as 
I will. Go get thee, good Sir Piers, to my 
privy chamber — there is my George-collar I 
would have out of the jewel-case on the 
dressing-table. Bring it me straight, I pri- 
thee, and tell my grooms not to come to me 
unless I send to them." 

" Readily, my lord," answered Sir Piers, 
and taking the key of the jewel-case from 
his patron, the newly made knight — surely 
never was knighthood so dishonored — pro- 
ceeded out of the chamber. Directly the 
door closed on him, the noble sprung from 
his seat, and very carefully took a small 
paper packet from beneath the silken lining 
of his velvet doublet, and cautiously opening 
it, poured its contents into the silver cup of 
his dependant, and then briskly stirred up 
the wine with his jeweled dagger. The 
latter he first wiped on his handkerchief, 
and replaced in its sheath ; and then saun- 
tered to the window, gaily bumming of a 
popular tune. Sir Piers presently returned 
with what he had been sent for, and took it 






THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



to the table, and his lord remained a minute 
or so at the window, as if intent on noting 
something in the base-court that had attract- 
ed his attention, and then sauntered back to 
his seat humming of his tune with the same 
careless manner as he had commenced it. 

" You are merry, my lord !" exclaimed 
the knight, who had now regained his seat. 

" Merry ! ay, and why not, my friend ?" 
replied the other very socially, as he put 
round his neck the magnificent chain he 
had sent for. " Methinks, I have right 
famous cause, Sir Piers. Everything con- 
spireth to make me the greatest man in these 
realms. I have no peer, look where I will ; 
and I have borne myself hitherto with such 
marvellous prudence, none can urge against 
me ought to my prejudice." 

" Marry, then you have famous cause for 
singing," cried his dependant. 

" Truly, have I, my faithful worthy friend," 
said his companion, taking the wine cup in 
his hand, with the look and manner of a 
true reveller, " Come, Sir Piers, prithee 
pledge me. As thou shalt share my for- 
tunes, 'tis but fitting thou shouldst drink to 
my lasting prosperity." 

" Most gladly will I," answered Sir Piers, 
quickly rising from his seat, and following 
his lord's example in grasping his wine cup. 

" Now, mark me, and do thou likewise — 

I will proclaim thee a sorry drinker !" and 
thereupon the noble drunk ofF at a draught 
the contents of his cup. 

" Bravely done, my lord !" cried the other, 
very merrily ; and I will now show how apt 
a scholar I am. My lord I drink to your 
continual prosperousness." And then Sir 
Piers finished his draught in as rapid a 
fashion as his lord had done. 

" Thou art indeed an apt scholar !" replied 
the noble, manifestly with more than ordi- 
nary satisfaction, as he placed his empty 
cup on the table, and reseated himself — the 
knight at the same time doing the like 
thing ; and then the former commenced 
humming of his tune again, and using of his 
toothpick, with as careless a look as if no 
person could be so content as was he. Sir 
Piers poured out more wine for himself, and 
continued eating of the dried fruit. All 
at once he smiled somewhat, and just at that 
moment his patron, taking a sudden glance 
at him, noticed it. 

" Ha, are thy thoughts so pleasant, Sir 
Piers !" cried the other, and then went on 
humming of his tune. 

•' Exceeding pleasant, my lord," said his 
companion, and smiled more evidently than 
before. At this the noble looked at him 
very hard, saying never a word ; and the 



knight kept his eyes on those of his empidyer 
asj^f he cared not for such scrutiny, for hi« 
smile continued to become more palpable. 
The lord now looked surprised — then amaz- 
ed — then distrustful — his tune ceased ere it 
had half ended — the tooth-pick fell from his 
hand, and laying convulsive hold of the 
arms of his chair, he leaned forward, fixing 
a stare of horror on his companion. The 
smile of the latter now had a sort of devilish 
derision in it, and his eyes glared on the 
other with a very fiendlike mockery. The 
noble now snatched at his dagger, holding 
himself up with the strength of the other 
arm, whilst the agbny expressed in his face, 
whence the blood had all rushed, leaving it 
of a deadly paleness, and the strange manner 
in which he began twisting his body, be- 
spoke in him some terrible suffering ; but at 
this his companion laughed outright, 

" Caught in thine own trap ! cried his 
triumphant partner in guilt. " O'' my life, 
never was traitor so well served ! What ? 
After I had done at thy bidding all manner 
of villanies, a dog's death was to be my re- 
ward ; and so thou get rid of every evidence 
of thy matchless infamy ! Prithee, my lord, 
stop up thy key-hole whilst preparing to 
poison thy familiars, when thou hast sent 
them out of the way awhile, else they may 
do as I have done, spy thy intention, and on 
their return make so bold as change the 
drugged cup for another, and so the poisoner 
get the poison for himself." 

Here the knight laughed again more scorn- 
fully than before. At this, his lord made a 
convulsive effort to rise — his horrible fierce 
looks distorted as if with the most racking 
intolerable pains — his eyes seeming- to dilate 
to a wonderful bigness, and flashing forth 
most dreadful deadly malice — his teeth 
gnashing together, and his every limb start- 
ing and trembling with the mightiness a 
his agony ; but as soon as he had got him- 
self to stand upright, his eyes rolled in their 
sockets most frightfully ; violent fierce 
spasms and convulsions shook him in every 
part — the uplifted dagger dropped from his 
nerveless grasp, and the next moment its 
lordly owner fell to the ground a corpse. 

" So ends my Lord of Leicester !" ex- 
claimed his villainous associate, as he ap- 
proached the body. " Truly a very suitable 
ending. But it will scarce be proper to 
leave him here, else I may chance to follow 
him more quickly than I desire." Saying 
this, Sir Piers carefully placed the dead man 
leaning back in his seat as if he slept, and 
then hurried out of the chamber. Thus 
finished his career, the most, accomplished 
villain of his age r who was bo admirable a 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



33S 



master of duplicity, that his real character 
was suspected of but few ; and so cautious 
in the doing of his villainies, that he rarely 
left the slightest ground for suspicion. At 
last, his over-anxiety to secure himself ended 
in his own destruction, as hath been related. 
Nevertheless, few knew him to be what he 
was ; and by those few he was so thorough- 
'y detested for his extraordinary craft and 
treachery, that amongst them he was usually 
called by the nickname of " The Gypsey." 
By the majority he hath been held in re- 
membrance as " The Great, Earl of Leices- 
ter;" but his title to such greatness as they 
would confer on him, was grounded on his 
magnificence, his unrivalled power in the 
kingdom,and the consummate policy of his en- 
deavors to retajn it. He was a brilliant char- 
acter, but it was the brilliance that cometh 
of a base metal, where the art used to give 
it a shining appearance, out of all comparison 
exceedeth the value of the stuff on which it 
is exerted. 

Many such men there are, who by their 
high position in the social fabric and won- 
drous subtlety in outwardly conforming with 
established opinions, pass for monuments 
worthy of admiration and reverence, whilst 
divers of the truly great, who have no other 
title than honesty, and little wealth beyond 
their daily crust, are passed over as of no 
account, and all that cometh of their noble 
aims as far as the world is concerned — is 
the oblivion of an unhonored grave. Never- 
theless, be sure Nature taketh a proper heed 
of these last, and whenever that vile partial 
chronicler, History, braggeth most loudly of 
his proud lords and sanguinary conquerors, 
ehe whispers in the ears of all just men, 
the loving kindnesses, the generous self- 
denials, the true nobility, and imperishable 
worth of her own peerage. Thus, among 
the well-judging few, models of true great- 
ness are ever to be found worthy of close 
copying, which, age after age, lead to the 
production of others of a like merit ; and 
thus nature fulfilleth the mission of truth, 
and laugheth the mere brags of history in 
utter and everlasting scorn. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

Behavior, what wert thou, 
Vi'il this man showed thee ? and what art thou 
now? 

Shakspeare. 

William Shakspeare sat in a miserable 
rarret which boasted of no better furniture 



than an old table, on which were some books 
and papers, an old stool to match, whereon 
he was sitting, a truckle bed of a like hum- 
bleness, that served for his nightly rest ; and 
a worm-eaten chest that played the part of 
cupboard, of press, and of book-case also. 
The casement was small and dirty, and 
the wainscot and ceiling crumbling in many 
places. I said amiss when I asserted .there 
was no better furniture in the chamber, for 
there was in it its gifted tenant ; and this 
made the poor place to be more richly fur- 
nished than could have been the stateliest 
hall throughout the kingdom. Mayhap he 
was studying of a part in some play, for he 
sat leaning his arms on the table, with his 
hands supporting his head^knmediately over 
a written paper ; and so serious was he in 
this studying, that he heard not the opening 
of the door, and the entrance of a visitor. 

" Ha ! there thou art, by this hand !" ex- 
claimed Master Greene, the play-writer, with 
as much seeming gladness as though the 
young player was his dearest friend ; and 
thereupon he went hastily up to him, and 
shook him famously by the hand, inquired 
after his health, and making such bountiful 
show of friendship as was quite refreshing 
to see. Master Shakspeare was courteous 
as was his wont ; but still he could not help 
marvelling what brought his visitor to him, 
for they had never been on any notable inti- 
macy. After awhile, Master Greene sat 
himself on the end of the bed, for he would 
not accept of the stool, though it was pressed 
on him with some urgency. Then he talked 
of the Queen of Scots' execution, and the 
last conspiracy of the papists, and other 
matter of news, as glibly as an intelligencer ; 
to which the other listened with the utmost 
civilness, joining in the discourse when it 
seemed necessary, yet wondering exceed- 
ingly such a person should put himself to 
the trouble of calling on him merely to talk 
to him on subjects with which every one 
was familiar. At last the conversation 
gradually approached the subject of plays. 

"That play of Lodge's went bravely," 
said he ; " but I said it needs must succeed 
when I heard it read by you. Surely you 
must have made marvellous alterations. I 
detected them on the instant. I did, by this 
hand ! Indeed they were filled with such 
exquisite beauty, it was clean impossible 
they should pass for the invention of Lodge, 
who, between ourselves, is exceeding shal- 
low — a sorry scribbler, who hath written 
nought deserving of serious commendation." 

" Nay, Master Lodge is not without mer- 
it," replied his companion. 

" Merit he hath, it may be allowed," re 



234 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE 



sponded the other ; " but be assured 'tis 
monstrous little. He could never write a 
play of any judgment, believe me. Mere 
bombast for passion, dullness for wit ; and by 
way of dialogue, the most tedious poor stuff 
that ever was writ. A knowledge of this 
made me the more admire your wondrous 
excellent genius in fashioning so admirable 
fine a play out of such sorry materials." 

" I did as well as my poor ability would 
allow," observed the young player. " But 
for mine own part, I think not so highly of it. 
J trust I may live to do much better things." 

" Ay, that shall you, Master Shakspeare !" 
exclaimed Master Greene, very earnestly. 
" And I will do all that in my power lieth to 
put yon in the way of attaining the excel- 
lence you desire." 

" I am much beholden to you, good sir," 
said William Shakspeare. 

" Not at all, not at all — O' my life ! my 
sweet friend, cried tbe play writer ; " it is 
your merit commands it. I am right glad 
and happy to be of service to so estimable a 
gentleman. By the way, I prophesied from 
he moment I noted your first appearance on 
he stage, you would, ere long, distinguish 
ourself famously. I saw it in you ; I did 
y this hand." Now, considering that the 
speaker was one of the bitterest of^those 
who spoke so slightingly of the young player 
at the tapster's, it was somewhat bold of him, 
and impudent withal, to venture such an as- 
sertion as this last, but his companion was 
not of a nature to treasure up slights, and, 
he took what was told him as truly genuine 
kindness. 

" It is scarce fitting of me to speak of my 
own works," continued Master Greene, in 
some manner that was meant to be hugely 
modest. " Methinks they should speak for 
themselves. There is my play of 'The 
History of Orlando Purioso,' which, as it 
hath taken so well of all judges, leaveth me 
nought to say of it. There is another of 
mine, 'A Looking-Glass for London and 
England,' the popularity of which is even 
greater than the preceding. Again, there 
is ' The honorable History of Friar Bacon 
and Friar Bungay,' that hath been no less 
praised ; and also, ' The Comical History of 
Alphonsus, King of Arragon,' held in simi- 
lar great liking : but surely my plays must 
be familiar enough to you, they having had 
such marvellous success." 

" In most of them I have played," replied 
the other ; " and as far as I could judge, 
they were amazingly relished of the audi- 
ence." 

a Indeed, I have no reason to be dissatis- 
fied with my writings," added his compan- 



ion ; therefore, it seemeth to me that I should 
be an exceeding proper person to give you 
assistance in any such performances, design 
you, as you should, to essay further efforts 
at the writing of plays." 

William Shakspeare remembered, that 
Master Greene was of some note for his 
learning, having taken degrees at both Ox- 
ford and Gambridge; and, being an experi- 
enced play-writer, seemed a very fit person 
to give instructions in whatever he might be 
deficient. 

" Truly I shall be glad of your friendly 
advice, worthy sir," replied he ; " and I thank 
you very heartily for being so kindly dis- 
posed toward me." 

" Believe me, it all cometh of my love of 
your extreme worthiness, .Master Shaks- 
peare !" exclaimed the other, with a seem- 
ing wonderful sincerity. " O' my life, I would 
do anything within my compass for your ad- 
vantage ; and this affectionateness leadeth 
me now to offer to write a play with you as 
speedily as may be most to your liking, after 
the manner usual in such cases ; that is to 
say, you shall write such a part of it, and I 
will write another part of it, on a design 
beforehand approved of us both." 

" I care not how saoon we set about it, 
Master Greene," answered his companion 
very readily. 

" Then meet me at Paul's, after the play 
is over to-day, and we will talk the matter 
more at length," said the play-writer, rising tc 
take his leave, with an aspect of considera- 
ble satisfaction. " But one thing before I 
leave you, my dear sweet friend — on no ac- 
count mention what we are about doing to 
Kit Marlowe, or any other writer of plays. 
Between ourselves, Kit is a horrible slippery 
sort of a person, a desperate consy -catcher 
and his companions Lodge, Peele, and Nash, 
are no better than he. You will via well in 
having nought to do with such." 

The young player promised to say nothing 
of the matter ; and soon after, with an 
abundance of friendliness, the visiw took 
his leave. He had not been gon» many 
minutes, when a quick step was hes-d as- 
cending the stairs, and presently in came 
Kit Marlowe, apparently in an ex-..uisite 
good humor, full of boisterous greeting, and 
laughing and talking as though his young 
host and he had been boon companions a 
thousand years. He too sat himself ax the 
bed's foot, and after the first great gladness 
of meeting was over, talked very free* -fab 
manner of gossip, intermixed with jes* 1, or 
such as were intended to pass for such tad 
[ a continual accompaniment of laug tog, 
which proved at least, he could relisl fc» 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



335 



own wit. He too, after a fit interval, led 
the discourse almost imperceptibly to plays, 
and when he got fairly hold of Master 
Lodge's production, he broke out into such 
praises of the amendments, as far exceeded 
what Master Greene had said. 

" As for Lodge, I marvel he should attempt 
play-writing," added he ; " there is more wit 
in a sour hedge crab, than in all he hath 
done, which showeth what sweet grafting he 
must have had, to have produced such good- 
ly fruit as the last. Indeed, it hath a most 
luscious flavor ; as different. to that of the 
old stock as is honey to verjuice. But 'tis 
natural enough, that whatsoever forceth one 
to make a wry face, as have I scores of 
times, I warrant you, at Lodge's poor per- 
formances, must needs be of manifest un- 
ripeness." 

" Surely, you hardly do him justice, Mas- 
ter Marlowe ?" observed the young player. 

" Justice, quotha !" exclaimed his com- 
panion, with a loud laugh ; " by this light, 
had he j ustice, he would be badly off indeed. 
Nay, nay, Master Shakspeare, he is as bar- 
ren as a whipping post; therefore am I bet- 
ter able to acknowledge the merit which is 
your due in altering of his play. You have 
transmuted his baseness into a most sterling 
commodity. But you must not rest here, my 
friend ; you are let slip, and you must for- 
ward now like a true hound." 

" Be assured, I would not throw away an 
opportunity for advancing myself, came it in 
my way," said William Shakspeare. 

" I'faith, you would be notably to blame, 
were you to do'so," added the other. " Now, 
you know I have written some few trifles ; 
for instance, there is my ' Tamburlaine the 
Great ;' there is my ' Doctor Faustus ;' there 
is my ' Jew of Malta ;' there is my ' Massa- 
cre of Paris ;' and there are also one or two 
other similar affairs of my unworthy endit- 
ing ; I think but poorly of them- 2 - but it hath 
pleased his worship the World to have a 
different opinion. Mayhap, his worship is 
an ass ; but trust me, I will not quarrel with 
him, whilst he beareth me on his back as 
bravely as he doth. Nevertheless, be my 
plays well or ill, they take, which methinks 
is the main point ; and it showeth I have 
6ome sort of skillfulness in knowing what 
will please." 

" Doubtless !" replied his companion. 

" Now my dear sweet friend," continued 
the other very cordially, " it is evident you 
are possessed of a like quality, else could 
not Lodge's play have the success it hath 
met with : therefore I have devised a plan, 
by which we may both profit exceedingly, 
and hold the field against all comers." 



" Indeed !" exclaimed William Shaks- 
peare, in some sort of surprise. 

" Ay, my dear rogue, and this is my plan." 
replied Kit Marlowe, " we two will club our 
wits and write a play in conjunction. 1 
will bring forth what gifts I have that have 
so long been wont to please the public, and 
you shall add to them the same inimitable 
choice talent you have already shown in 
your first efforts ; and the result cannot help 
being such a play as the world hath never 
yet seen, and which shall at once place ua 
far above the paltry bombastic scribblers 
who now thrust -their worthless inventions 
on the stage. What sayest, Master Shaks- 
peare ? How dost affect this plan of mine 
my sweet friend ?" 

" In honest truth I like it well enough, 
Master Marlowe," replied his companion, 
holding in mind the other's reputation as a 
writer of plays, which at that time stood se- 
cond to none. " If you think it will be at- 
tended with such famous results, we will 
commence it as soon as you please." 

" Well said, my heart of oak !" cried the 
other, now rising with a notable pleased 
countenance, " I will call on you this time 
to-morrow to confer further on the matter. 
But I charge you, break not a word of it 
to Greene, or Peele, or Nash, or any of that 
set ; and have no dealings with them on any 
account. There* is neither conscience, 
truth, nor honesty in them. They are coz- 
eners all ; and that Greene, he is the very 
blackest sheep of the flock. Keep aloof 
from them, I beseech you, else you will suf- 
fer for it terribly ; and I promise you, if you 
will allow of my true « friendship, I will, ere 
any very long time hath passed, put you in 
such good case, you shall consider fortune 
and yourself are sworn brothers." So say- 
ing, and with as prodigal a show of affec- 
tionateness as Master Greene had exhibited 
in his leave taking, Kit Marlowe also de- 
parted. 

The young player marvelled somewhat 
that persons of such reputation as were his 
two visitors, should come to one obscure as 
himself on such an errand ; but he thought 
there might be advancement for him in 
availing himself of their offers, and there- 
fore very gladly accepted them. Their 
abuse of each other, and of their compan- 
ions, amused him, for he saw thoroughly in- 
to it. Whilst he was engaged in reflections 
upon these visits, another step on the stairs 
betokened another visitor, and in came 
Peele. He went through much the same 
sort of seer e as his predecessors, exhibited 
the like extravagant joy at meeting — gos- 
sipped about similar mdifferent subjects, till 



236 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



he skilfully led the converse to plays — | 
abused Lodge as heartily as the others had 
done, and spoke with the same liberality of 
commendation on the amendments of Wil- 
liam Shakspeare, proposed to write a play 
conjointly with the young player — and after 
'varning him against his brother play wri- 
ters, more especially against Greene and 
Marlowe as notorious bad characters, he 
took his leave. He was followed by Chet- 
e, Kyd, Nash, and others of the play wri- 
ers, all of whom, in much the same sort of 
.utine, either offered to write plays with 
;.m, or brought him plays they had already 
writ, to do as he liked by, or some they had 
commenced, to get him to finish as it pleased 
him best. And every one— albeit, forgetful 
how greatly they had previously abused him, 
came in such fashion as seemed most to ap- 
prove their extraordinary love of him ; and 
none departed without denouncing all of his 
companions, who had gone before, or were 
like to come after. 

The young player answered them as well 
as he could — monstrously amused at the 
whole affair, for he had wit enough to see 
what they aimed at ; but resolved, as far as 
he could, to make them subservient to his 
own particular advancement. In this me- 
thinks he showed his wisdom ; for as affairs 
stood, it was not at all possible for him to 
make way either as a player, or a play wri- 
ter without some such assistance. The 
manager was as inveterate against him as 
ever, because the success of the piece Wil- 
liam Shakspeare had taken in hand, convic- 
ted him in the eyes of his associates of pos- 
sessing a marvellous lack of judgment He 
could plain enough see the great mer.t of the 
alterations, but his wounded self-love now 
made his prejudices all the stronger, and he 
seemed for it only the more disposed to keep 
the young player's talents as much in the 
back ground as he could. This unworthy 
treatment the latter bore with wonder- 
ful sweet patience and dignity ; neverthe- 
less it fretted his high aspiring mind exceed- 
ingly at times, and the bitter poverty in which 
it kept him, exposed him to such humiliations 
and sufferings as were scarce endurable. 

His chiefest pleasures lay in hearing of 
his children, which . he never failed to do 
with a famous regularity, by the kind as- 
sistance of John a Combe ; and in the con- 
tinuance of his correspondence with the 
lovely Mistress D'Avenant, who more and 
more developed to his quick perceptions the 
prodigal gifts of mind and heart of which 
she was possessed. It is to be expected that 
their correspondence should be marked with 
a tone of more endearing earnestness as they 



made more familiar acquaintance with each 
other's manifold loving virtues. Tins in- 
sensibly took place as their intimacy pro- 
ceeded. The language of passionate devo- 
tion mingled in greater portion witli graver 
discourse. Intellect came warmed with a 
more endearing philosophy, and sympathy 
took on itself sweeter and deeper feeling. 
This change was first evident in Mistress 
D'Avenant, and indeed it continued most 
conspicuous in her correspondence. It 
seemed as though she could set no bounds 
to her affection for one of so truly loving a 
nature, and that it would scarce be justice if 
her admiration of his genius came not to the 
utmost extravagance of idolatry. Never did 
any woman show a more generous self- 
abandonment upon the altar of true devo- 
tion ; but in this, as she imagined no ill, she 
believed no ill could exist. She felt herself 
ennobled by her feelings, and thought she 
could not sufficiently testify her gratitude to 
the honorable source whence they sprung. 

Her frequent writing was of essential ser- 
vice, for she never failed to hold out to him 
the most brilliant hopes. Nothing seemed 
she to love so much as the picturing of his 
future greatness ; and her appreciation of 
his worth was such, that these anticipations 
were beyond all things magnificent. She 
piled up a very pyramid of hopes to his 
honor, which she fondly believed should last 
unto eternity. This not only fired his am- 
bition, but kept the flame burning with an 
increasing brightness — but it did more — the 
high opinion of his desert, which it evinced, 
awakened and kept alive in him a deep con- 
tinual anxiousness to make his conduct ac- 
cord with it as much as was possible. Per- 
chance this occasioned that marvellous 
sweet patience he exhibited under the petty 
tyranny of the elder Burbage, and that free- 
dom from every sort of discreditableness 
shown by him whilst suffering the fiercest 
pressure of poverty. It is here necessary 
to add that in his frequent letters to his af- 
fectionate sweet friend at Oxford he gave n« 
intimation of the poorness of his estate, so 
that she was in complete ignorance of his 
sufferings and privations. This arose partly 
from a certain delicacy which kept him from 
acquainting her with such matters ; and ir. 
some measure, from a peculiar pride which 
allowed him not to betray the immense dif 
ference of his case betwixt what she desired 
and what he endured. But to give the rea- 
der a proper understanding of her character, 
methinks it will be necessary to introduce 
here some specimen of the style and matter 
of her writing. Here followeth an extftuj* 
from one of her letters : — 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



237 



* Lot. «tPi beseech of you to take sufficient 
baea oi yourself , so that no hurt follow those 
deep studies to which, you tell me, you give 
all your leisure. Remember that this con- 
stant wear and tear of the mind is infinitely 
destructive of the body. I am fearful your 
extreme ardor to fulfil your glorious destiny 
may bring you to a halt ere half the journey 
hath been accomplished. Think of this. I 
pray you essay to curb in your impetuous 
spirits. He who would win a race starteth 
not off' at the top of his strength, whereby 
he might soon spend his energies ; but be- 
ginneth at a fair pace, which he can keep 
up without fear of exhaustion, and mayhap 
increase where there shall appear need of it. 
Ever bear in mind the greatness of the prize 
for which you are running ; and never part 
with the conviction that it cannot help being 
vours, use you but common prudence in its 
attainment. I often find myself wishing I 
were with you, that I might see your health 
suffered nothing by your studiousness. I 
doubt not I should keep such excellent 
watch for your safety as should be an ex- 
ample to all vigilant officers ; and surely 
this is the more fitting of me, knowing as I 
do, above all others, the exceeding covetable 
preciousness of such a charge. 

" But as with you I cannot be, I hope you 
will allow of my desires exerting their salu- 
tary influence as my poor thoughts express 
them in this present writing. To live to 
see you so proudly circumstanced as your 
merit gives you fairest title to, is what I most 
fervently hope for. This, as it seemeth to 
me, can only be marred by your own want 
of proper care of yourself; and having 
marked how marvellous little of the selfish 

Erinciple exists in your disposition, I cannot 
elp, at times, dreading the consequence. 
Pardon me my importunity — I must again 
beseech you to be heedful. Let me at least 
have the exquisite consolation of knowing 
that my life hath been for some good pur- 
pose ; for should it be my ill hap to behold 
you, from want of proper guardianship, fall 
short of my expectations, 1 should from that 
moment consider, and with strict justice, my 
existence to have been a blank. But what 
I am, or may be, must be of little moment 
in so important a matter. I would rather 
you should keep in mind the thousands and 
ten of thousands to whose delight your bril- 
liant destiny calleth you to minister. In 
brief, do for yourself as I desire of you ; and 
all people, all times, and all countries shall 
look to jou. as their chief debtor. 

" I believe the amount of human happiness 
to be none so large in comparison with the 
countless numbers that would draw upon it ; 



and look upon such persons as yourself— 
Ah ! where shall I find me such another !— . 
as keepers of banks who are wont to issuj 
their own coinage for to be circulated gerier 
ally — to the vast increase of comfort in tk 
whole community. Having this office, neve . 
forget for one single moment how great is 
your responsibility. Should any accident 
happen to prevent the proper fulfilment of 
your services, how much will the world lose 
of what is most sterling and necessary. 
Perchance for lack of such, all manner of 
baseness may be made to pass for the true 
coinage, and poverty become more general 
by reason of the spreading of such worthless 
counterfeits. I conjure you be regardful in 
this point. Take what recreation cometh to 
your hand. Meet you with disappointments 
or mishaps, look on them as the natural lets 
of life, and pass them by with the proper in- 
difierency that should belong to a philoso- 
phic mind. Envy you may meet with — slan- 
der you may meet with — which with injus- 
tice, insolence, and oppression, mayhap will 
seek to stop your way — for these are the 
common obstacles to greatness in its early 
development; but of such, — I know you 
will make of them mere straws that shall 
not hinder you a step. It is of yourself I 
fear. No one else can prove himself your 
real enemy. Take care then of yourself. 
Watch yourself narrowly. Strengthen your- 
self by all possible means ; and by so doing, 
marvel not that you weaken the power of 
yourself to do your fortunes injury. 

" I expect you to bear with me for my so 
constant repetition of this my request. My 
zeal will not allow of my stopping short in 
endeavors so paramount for the securing of 
your welfare. You are to me all wisdom, 
virtue, and excellence — all nobleness, all 
honor, all truth, charity, and love. In the 
spirit of the devout worshippers of old, I am 
not content with the conviction that the tem- 
ple at which I pay my devotions is the wor 
thiest in the whole world ; I would lay such 
liberal offerings on the altar as should go far 
to make it so. I devote all my acquirements 
to its use — such treasures as I have in my 
thoughts, feelings, hopes, blessings, and 
prayers, I give as jewels to enrich so admi- 
rable a shrine — and all I dare desire for my- 
self for so doing, is that when the edifice 
hath attained its deserved celebrity, — and 
far and near come throngs of earnest wor- 
shippers, — in the innermost sanctuary there 
should be one little nook concealed from the 
vulgar eye, wherein should be entombed the 
heart of her whose deep affections helped U) 
secure its fame." 
. On a nature like that of William Shaks- 



238 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



peare, it was not possible for such an inti- 
macy bo conducted, to exist without produ- 
cing the best effect. There could not be a 
more different person than was he at this 
time to what he had been the first two years 
of his marriage. He was proud of being 
loved by so noble a woman. He felt there 
was in it an honor, which for real value the 
objects of his highest ambition could not ex- 
ceed ; and this raised him so far above the 
lowness of his condition that he was enabled 
to endure it as well as he did. It so hap- 
pened that this last letter remained unan- 
swered a long while, which made him write 
again ; but he heard not of her any the more, 
which filled him with some uneasiness, for 
she was ordinarily most punctual in her 
writing. Not knowing whether his letters 
had miscarried, or that she had been taken 
with any sudden illness, he felt in some way 
perplexed as to what would be best for him 
to do. On the morning that the play-writers 
had shown towards him such exceeding 
friendliness, after he had got rid of the last 
some half hour or so, and believed he should 
have no more such visits, he heard another 
footstep which put him into no little discon- 
tent, for he was tired of such company. 
Nevertheless seeing he could not well do 
otherwise, he resigned himself to his fate, 
and when a knock was heard at his door, 
bade his new visitor enter. Thereupon the 
door, opened, and to his exceeding wonder, 
who should appear at it but Mistress D'Ave- 
nant, and to his greater astonishment she 
was attired in the ordinary mourning of a 
widow. 

The sort of greeting may be imagined be- 
tween two such persons under such circum- 
stances ; but still there was something in it 
not likely to be conceived of any. It ap- 
peared that John D'Avenant had been at- 
tacked with a fierce disease, and all the time 
it lasted his wife attended him so closely day 
and night, she had not a moment to spare 
for any other purpose. It is true he had 
been any thing rather than a proper hus- 
band to her ; and his own unworthiness had 
brought him to his present condition ; but in 
her eyes these facts could be no bar to her 
showing of him in his extremity the proper 
duties of a wife : whereof the consequence 
was her unremitting kind nursing of him to 
the very moment of his death, so exhausted 
her, that she was fain to keep her bed for 
some weeks after. On her recovery she 
thought, instead of writing to the young 
player, she would be herself the bearer of the 
intelligence, and thereupon proceeded to 
London. At the play-house where she had 
been used to direct her letters, she learned. 



his address, and not long after tb&t Rfte ar- 
rived at his lodgings. Perchance., this oo< 
havior of hers may be thought monstrous lr 
regular by many ; but as she sought no evu, 
she took in no sort of consideration any ones 
opinion on the matter. In their meeting 
there seemed a mutual restraint — in her it 
seemed to arise from the overpowering in- 
fluence of her feelings — in him it was the 
result of an embarrassing idea, that at once 
and for the first time presented itself to his * 
mind. 

During his stay at Oxford he had never 
alluded to his own marriage, perchance as 
much from dislike of the subject as from im- 
agining such allusion to be unnecessary ; 
and in his after correspondence the feeling 
which prevented him troubling her with his 
own particular griefs, kept him silent on the 
matter. Thus, his youth and his genera* 
conduct, might, he thought, have impressed 
her with the belief that he was unmarried ; 
and his ardent affection for her which he had 
made too conspicuous to be mistaken, might 
now have brdught her to London, with the 
conviction he would immediately make her 
his wife. There is no doubt nothing would 
have given him such true pleasure as the 
fulfilling of such expectations, had he the 
power of so doing, but knowing its utter im- 
possibility, and the terrible disappointment 
the knowledge of it might create in a confi- 
ding loving woman, he was for some min- 
utes perfectly bewildered as to what he 
should do for the best. However, beingwell 
convinced that to delay making her acquain- 
ted with his real situation, would but in- 
crease the likelihood of evil, he determined 
to break it to her as gently as he could with- 
out loss of time. Thereupon he took occa- 
sion as they conversed together, to speak of 
his children, doing it in such a manner aa 
might gradually prepare her for the know- 
ledge of his marriage ; after which he in- 
formed her of the circumstances under which 
it had taken place, and without imputing 
blame to any save himself, gave her such 
insight into its unhappiness, as he thought 
necessary. i 

Perchance Mistress D'Avenant had en- 
tertained some notion of being made his wife, 
as she could not but be aware how dear she 
was to him, for on her perceiving the purport 
of his converse, her beautiful countenance 
suddenly took on it the paleness of death. 
There was a fixed unmeaning stare in her 
brilliant eyes, and a sort of quick swallow- 
ing at her throat ; but these signs passed al 
most on the instant they made their appear- 
ance, and she presently listened to this unex- 
pected intelligence with scarce more than 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



239 



an ordinary interest. Doubtless the disap- 
pointment had been poignant enough ; but 
she was of too noble a disposition to betray 
her real feelings, seeing it could only contri- 
bute to her lover's unhappiness ; and heard 
him out without interruption. 

" 'Tis marvellous our fortunes should 
have been so much alike," observed she. 
" Like you I married too young to know 
what I was preparing for myself, and in per- 
fect ignorance of the nature of the person 
to whom I was united. Like you I have 
been deceived by fair appearances, and after 
the discovery of the huge mistake I had 
made, lived a life of hopes overthrown, and 
cares which every day made less endurable. 
When I became honored with your acquain- 
tance, a new light shone on my path. I felt 
I could endure a martyrdom but to seem 
worthy in your eyes. Although I quickly 
loved you with my every feeling, from the 
moment I coveted your affection, I bent my 
mind and my heart so to my duties as a 
wife, that the most exacting husband could 
have found in me no manner of fault — for I 
had in me the conviction, that one who was 
amiss as a wife,*must needs be unworthy as 
a woman, and that such a woman had no 
shadow of title to the sympathy of a dispo- 
sition so allied to excellence as your own." 

The young player replied not to this ; 
6a ve only as he sat by her side, the hand he 
had hitherto held in his own, he fondly 
raised to his lips. She continued : — 

" When I learned I was loved by you, it 
gave me a value in mine own eyes I knew 
not till then. I appeared as though I had at- 
tained the very noblest and most glorious 
dignity a woman could possess. How liber- 
ally you garnished my poor state with the 
wondrous magnificence of your genius, I 
have not power enough of language to state ; 
but on every fresh occasion, you bound my 
nature to you with a chain more precious 
than gold, and more durable than adamant. 
Believe me I am grateful ; but I despair of 
ever being grateful enough. In the after 
time, when I hear — as hear I must — the uni- 
versal voice breathing your immortal praises 
over the land, methinks I cannot help being 
the proudest creature on the earth, for I can 
feed my heart with the exquisite sweet truth 
that I, a humble creature of no worldly rank 
or quality whatsoever, was singled out, es- 
teemed, and loved of so truly honorable a 
person." 

" Ay, dearest, truest, and be&t of all wo- 
men !" exclaimed her lover as he rapturously 
pressed her to his breast. " But there is a 
truth that methinks would be still more satis- 
factory to you at such a time, and that is — 



your desert alone made me enamored, and 
by the proper influence of the same admira- 
ble cause, I continued in the same fond feel- 
ing. Think you I have no call for gratitude ? 
Surely I have far more need to show it than 
yourself ? I doubt not at all, had it not been 
my inestimahle good fortune to have found 
myself at such a time supported by your en- 
couraging and ennobling hopes, I should 
have sunk under the harrassing vexatious 
toils and troubles which met me at every 
turn. Truly 1 am wondrously indebted to 
you ; never was service so great as that which 
you have done me ; and if ever I should rise 
to that lofty summit your affections have de- 
clared accessible, believe me I shall attribute 
— in nought but strict justice— <-the whole 
honor of it to her whose bountiful sweet 
goodness brought it within my compass. At 
present I have nought better to offer as a 
proof of the grateful sense I entertain of 
your most prodigal kindness, save the im- 
perishable feelings it hath awakened. All 
of me which I believe to be worthy of com- 
mendation — every proper thought — every 
excellent sympathy — each sensation, impulse 
and sentiment that most deserves entertain- 
ment, do declare my love of you. If such 
love content you well, count on it for the 
lasting of my life. I am yours, and if, as 
you have afforded me such indisputable evi- 
dence, I may claim a loving property in your 
affections, I beseech you very earnestly, con- 
tinue me in the inexpressible delicious com- 
fort of believing you are mine." 

" Ah, Master Shakspeare, methinks I lack 
not readiness to do that," exclaimed Mistress 
D'Avenant with marvellous impressive ten- 
derness. " That I should be greatly con- 
demned for my conduct is more than proba- 
ble ; but such condemnation frighteneth not 
me. It seemeth that my loving you is ne- 
cessary to your happiness, and that your 
happiness cannot help but produce a very 
cornucopia of delights unto the many thou- 
sands that may come within your influence 
The conviction of the universal good ] may 
effect, maketh my love to know no bounds. 
I ask nothing — I wish for nothing but the 
enviable office of driving all discomforts 
from your neighborhood, and so securing for 
you a gladdening existence. That my merit 
is so little I regret, but if you hold me in 
such appreciation as you have oft made me 
imagine, I am here the creature of your 
love. If it be necessary for your welfare 
here am I, ready to live for you in all loving- 
ness, devoting the best energies of my 
nature to afford you the necessary facilities 
for fulfilling your glorious ministry, till you 
become what I would have you be — the 



240 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



E ride, the ornament, and the benefactor of all 
umanity." 

How this loving speech was received it 
mattereth not to tell ; but doubt not the 
nobleness it breathed was as nobly regard- 
ed. Perchance there shall be found many, 
who would spy in the conduct of Mistress 
D'Avenant something to take offence at, the 
which their own prejudices shall speedily 
distort into matter not to be tolerated ; but 
such persons are of that close watching, 
magnifying sort, who, if they find a flea on 
a neighbor's jerkin, straightway hie them 
with a very microscopic malice, to show the 
world what a monster they can make of it. 
Such methinks are entitled to no manner of 
consideration. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

She stirs ! Here's life ! 
Return fair soul from darkness and lead mine 
Out of this sensible hell. She's warm ; she 

breathes ! 
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart, 
To store them with fresh color. Who's there ? 
Some cordial drink ! 

Her eye opes, 
And Heaven in it seems to ODe, that late was 

shut 
To take me up to mercy. 

Webster. 

The Page was alone, sitting in one of the 
unfrequented chambers of his Lord's man- 
sion, where he had of late been wont to re- 
tire for the sake of more perfect privacy in 
the indulgence of his own thoughts. He 
had for some time been in an exceeding 
comfortless state of mind. Doubts of the 
Lady Blanche's guilt had grown stronger in 
him at each succeeding interview, and his 
huge dislike of her had turned to an affec- 
tionate sympathy, as deep and true as ever 
rose out of unmerited suffering. That the 
Earl was the dupe of some base villainy, of 
which his wife and child were made the 
victims, he could not help believing; and 
yet the story of her shame looked to be so 
proved against her, that he knew not at 
times whether to regard her conduct as the 
evidence of a sincere repentance, or of a 
consciousness of perfect innocence. To 
him there appeared something so truly beau- 
tiful in her uncomplaining endurance, that 
whatever she might have been, there could 
not be a doubt in his mind, she was of a 
most sweetly disposed nature ; and this so 
won upon his own gentleness of character, 
he felt he would gladly lay down his life to 



prove her guiltless of the horrible offences 
laid to her charge. 

All this time the Lord Urban seemed to 
be fast sinking to the grave. He gave him- 
self up more than ever to solitary rambles ; 
and his fits of remorse became daily more 
terrible. The murder he had done appeared 
to be everlastingly in his thoughts ; and the 
sufferings that came of it were of so moving 
a sort, the beholding of them must needs 
have softened the sternest heart in his favor. 
On one so affectionately inclined as was his 
youthful attendant, their effect may readily 
be conceived : Bertram did all that faithful- 
ness and love could do, towards bringing his 
lord into a proper comfort ; but the iron had 
entered too deep to be withdrawn by such 
gentle surgery. Often and often, whet? he 
found his efforts fruitless, had he stolen into 
this unfrequented chamber, and there be- 
moaned his uselessness, and strove to hit on 
some plan which might restore peace to this 
noble family. Alack ! there seemed not the 
slightest hope of such a thing. He liked 
not questioning of theservants ; and Adam, 
who alone knew the facts of the case, as he 
believed — though he was "communicative 
enough on every other matter, from affection 
for the youth, never spoke on the subject. 

At this time it was that the Earl's kins- 
man before alluded to, arrived with his serv- 
ing man at the mansion. He came late at 
night, and Bertram knew not of his visit 
till the morning. The unhappy De la Pole, 
as soon as he had intelligence of his kins- 
man's arrival, rushed out of the house in a 
desperate frenzy, as if he could in no man- 
ner endure the sight of a person, who, 
whether his intentions had been good or 
otherwise, had been so instrumental to his 
long-continued, unspeakable misery ; and his 
youthful attendant, scarce less sad at heart, 
retired to the privacy before mentioned, to 
consider with himself how he could best get 
rid of so unwelcome a person. Whilst he 
was so engaged, he heard footsteps approach 
the door, and with them voices he recogniz- 
ed on the instant. In an agony of dread he 
rushed behind the arras ; and there conceal- 
ed himself, just before two persons entered 
the chamber. 

" Here we are safe," observed one, as he 
closed the door after him. " We need fear 
no spies. Now, as I take it, the surest and 
profitablest thing, is to put him out of the way 
without any further delaying ; what sayest ? 
Shall we live like persons of worship, or 
starve like contemptible poor villains?" 

" Nay, I am for no starving, an it please 
you, master," replied the other ; " I can have 
no sort of objections to such a course, see 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



241 



tag kow many of the sort i have already 
had a hand in ; but methinks, I have hither- 
to been looked over somewhat. Here are 
you, advanced to honor chiefly by my good 
help, and likely to be put in possession of 
abundant great wealth and broad lands, by 
the same seasonable aid, whilst I am kept 
to no better state than a humble, poor slave ; 
and, as far as I can see, in such paltry case 
I may ever chance to continue." 

" By God's body, that shall never be !" 
exclaimed his master, with wonderful ear- 
nestness ; " serve me in this matter, which 
shall be the last aid I will seek at thy hands, 
I will make thee a gentleman, and settle on 
thee in lands or money at least two hundred 
pounds a year." 

" That contenteth me well enough," an- 
Bwered his associate ; " I want only to live 
in some sort of peace and comfort, for I am 
getting to be tired of the life I have led : 
but let us heed our courses. My lord hath 
store of powerful friends, and get we sus- 
pected, it must needs come to a speedy 
hanging with us." 

" Tut ! where didst pick up so silly a 
thought?" cried the other; "I have good 
reason for knowing, his death would be in- 
finitely acceptable to persons in authority ; 
for since I have been at court, I have noted 
how much the Poles are hunted after, be- 
cause of their nearness to the royal blood, 
and though my Lord Urban is but a distant 
Dranch, he is of the family, and that is suf- 
ficient; to make his destruction exceeding de- 
sirable in high places." 

" I would he had died of his own accord," 
exclaimed his companion ; " I'faith, I won- 
der he hath lived so long in such monstrous 
misery." 

" Methinks we have waited for his dying 
long enough, of all conscience," said his 
master ; " and as I am circumstanced at this 
present, his death is my only help." 

" How desire you it shall be done ?" ask- 
ed the meaner villain. 

" There is nought so easy," answered the 
other; " he is doubtless now wandering in 
the neighboring wood ; there, whilst he is 
wrapped in his miserable humor, we can 
steal on him unseen, and despatch him with 
our daggers, ere he hath opportunity for de- 
fence. This achieved, nothing is so easy 
as preventing all suspicion falling on our- 
selves, and making it appear it was done by 
Jhieves, or other lewd characters : then our 
fortunes are made, and we shall live plea- 
santly the rest of our days." 

" Prithee, let us about it at once, then ; 
for I care not how soon it be over," added 
tok companion 



The page at first marvelled how such vil- 
lains as he knew them to be, got into the 
house, and feared only for himself; but 
when he heard the vile deed they were plot- 
ting, his senses seemed utterly confounded 
with horror. His fear was now entirely for 
his lord, and he dreaded every moment tho 
violence of his excitement would betray him, 
and so he be prevented from defeating tho 
intended villainy. At last, having suffici- 
ently matured their plan, the murderers left 
the chamber, to proceed, to its instant exe- 
cution; and the page emerged from his 
hiding place, with infinite terror and intense 
anxiousness. 

" Haste you Adam to the wood, or my 
lord will be foully murdered!" exclaimed 
he, distractedly, as he passed through the 
hall, wherein were several of the domestics ; 
" to the wood !" cried he ; and stopping not 
to be questioned of the astonished serving 
men, he bent his steps as fleetly as he could 
towards the. place he had named. Here he 
for sometime continued running along every 
path where he had hope of falling in with the 
Earl, in a state of such alarm for his lord, 
as exceedeth all conceiving. Every minute 
lost might secure to the murderers the suc- 
cess of their horrible plot ; yet many such 
minutes passed in fruitless hurrying from 
one part of the wood to another. Almost 
hopeless, breathless and exhausted, on a 
sudden turn he caught sight of those of 
whom he had been in search. At a dis- 
tance was the Earl leaning abstractedly 
against a tree, as was his wont, his back 
being to the path, and his senses so entirely 
given up to his melancholy reflections, he 
could have no knowledge that at the dis- 
tance of a few yards a man was creeping 
stealthily towards him armed with a dagger, 
closely followed b}' another, coming on with 
a like caution and a similar weapon ; and 
these latter were too intent on their wicked 
object to note that, in a few seconds, they 
were being rapidly gained on by the quick 
light footsteps of their young pursuer. 

Bertram, in a very agony of fear he should 
be too late, seeing how near the murderers 
were getting to their intended victim, pres- 
sed on with a noiseless pace. The villain 
who followed his companion was almost 
within the youth's touch, but the latter was 
fearful that whilst he attacked him, the other 
might strike the fatal blow, and so render 
his assistance of no service. At a bound 
he presently passed the fellow before him. 

" To your defence, my lord !" cried he as 
loudly as he could, and in the same moment 
he sent the foremost villain reeling to me 
earth with a blow of his dagger. The earl 



243 



THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 



started from his reverie, gazed amazedly to 
find his kinsman standing a few paces from 
turn with a drawn weapon — the kinsman's 
servant stretched on the ground, as though 
with a deep wound, and his page grasping a 
reeking dagger, facing his kinsman with 
looks of terribls determination. But the 
murderer waited not a moment of such fac- 
ing, for directly he beheld his servant fall, 
and the youth's bloody weapon before him, 
he fled with such precipitancy into the thick- 
est of the wood, that he was quickly lost 
sight of. Scarce had Bertram acquainted 
the Lord de la Pole of the meaning of what 
ne had witnessed with such extreme aston- 
ishment, when old Adam came up in great 
haste and alarm, accompanied by divers of 
the serving-men well armed. No pursuit 
was made after the treacherous kinsman ; 
and finding that the wounded man was not 
dead — though apparently no great way from 
it — he was carried to the mansion. Surely 
no one could be so happy as the page, in 
having saved his lord, and none so truly 
grateful as was the earl for such timely 
rescue at his hands ; but with this service 
the former rested not satisfied. It seemed to 
Bertram something more might be done, and 
to the surprise of Adam, his companions, 
and their master, he went to the side of 
the couch whereon the wounded man was 
lying, and took him kindly by the hand. 
The dying villain opened his eyes ; but as 
soon as he beheld the youth's features, he 
started in a strange amazement. 

•' Saul," said the page to him in an ex- 
ceeding earnest and- impressive manner, 
"you have long sought my destruction, and 
I never harmed you by word or thought. 
You have now fallen by my hand ; but from 
no desire of vengeance for my own wrongs. 
As I hope for mercy hereafter, I never wish- 
ed you hurt, till to prevent my lord's murder, 
I was forced to lift my weapon against your 
life. I have before this knocked at your 
heart, and found you not so great a villain as 
vou seemed. I would think well of you if 
T could. I beseech you forget not that your 
wound is mortal ; and that but a brief inter- 
val remains to allow of your crowning your 
bad life with an honest repentance. I im- 
plore you to do it. I am confident you can 
effect a great good by a free confession of 
certain deeds, whereof there remaineth no 
doubt in my mind you had the principal 
handling. I allude to the Lady Blanche. I 
charge you as you look for your soul's com- 
fort, reveal the whole truth." 

At this the man fell to a pitiful lamenta- 
tion of his monstrous wickedness, and very 
readily confessecf that the countess was in- 



nocent of all that had been laid to feet 
charge, and that his master, for certain de 
signs of his own, had got one of the Lady 
Blanche's attendants to represent her mis- 
tress, after she was in bed and asleep, — ana 
that he, Saul, was the cloaked person who 
had ascended the ladder of ropes, entered the 
chamber, and caressed the waiting woman, 
who was his leman, and that this woman 
was afterwards privily made away with, to 
prevent her from declaring the part she had 
taken in the deception, which she seemed apt 
enough to do, believing it had caused the 
death of her mistress. 

" God help me, I have murdered mine own 
child !" groaned the unhappy earl ; and 
thereupon he fell into such a paroxysm of 
anguish as was fearful to look on. 

" My lord ! my lord ! as I am a sinful 
man, that child received no hurt," exclaimed 
Adam. 

" Speak that again," shouted his master, 
wildly catching the old man by the arm. — 
" Repeat it — assure me of it, and I will bless 
thee to my life's end." 

" An' it please you, my lord, it is as I have 
said," replied Adam. " I liked not the deed, 
though I felt bound to do you whatever ser- 
vice you required of me. I took especial 
heed of the babe till morning, and soon as I 
thought 'twas fit time, 1 rode to a charitable 
lady's some miles off, and placed the new- 
born child so conspicuously, she could not 
fail seeing it on her going her morning's 
walk. I waited in concealment till she ven- 
tured out of her dwelling, as I knew she 
was wont to do ; and I saw her take up 
the child and carry it within doors. I made 
you believe I had done as you desired, and 
having no doubt of my lady's guilt, I never 
thought it necessary to say the truth." 

" But what name hath that place ?" in- 
quired his lord hurriedly, and with a wond- 
rous eagerness. " To horse, my fellows ! to 
horse ! we must there on the instant." 

" The place was called Charlcote, and ly- 
eth convenient to Stratford on the Avon," 
replied the old man. 

" Look to the page — by heaven, he hath 
swooned !" exclaimed the earl, as he beheld 
his faithful attendant fall senseless to the 
ground. 

"My lord !" murmured the dying man, as 
he raised himself a little on the couch, " let 
me at least make some lasting happiness 
where I have produced such dreadful mise- 
ry. That is no page. That is Mabel, the 
foundling. To escape from the plots of Sir 
Piers Buzzard and myself, then set on by 
hopes of great reward, and striving all we 
could, to get her into the power of my Lord 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



jms 



of Leicester, who was enamored of her, she 
at last disguised herself and got away from 
Charlcote, and hath hither fled. My lord, 
be assured of it, she is your daughter, and 
none other." 

" Will my heart-strings crack !" exclaimed 
the bewildered happy parent, as he pressed 
the still senseless page within his arms, 
with such marvellous affection as none 
could see unmoved. " Help, I prithee, 
knaves — or my brain will turn at this sight. 
Open thy lids, my child, and behold that un- 
natural fierce father, who doomed thee to 
death ; and to whom thou since played so 
loving a part — my faithful servant, — my 
brave preserver, — my gentle-hearted, true 
daughter! In mercy revive. Unworthy 
though I am, I do beseech thee afford me 
the exquisite comfort of thy full forgiveness. 
Ha! she stirs ! My head swims with excess 
of joy. Oh, my dear sweet noble child, from 
what a hell of torment has this discovery re- 
lieved me !' 

The feelings of the poor foundling, so sud- 
denly raised to greatness and honor, passeth 
description. She whom no lowness of cir- 
cumstance could render servile, and that the 
desperateness of danger turned from maiden 
gentleness to most fearless heroic valor, was 
not of a nature to meet such an event as 
hath just been described, without her whole 
being experiencing its influence ; but during 
all the time, she poured out her heart's ex- 
quisite affections on the bosom of her father, 
there was one whom she was longing most 
ardently to join, whose love could alone 
make perfect the happiness she was enjoy- 
ing, : and waiting till the earl's transports 
became more calm, she whispered to him the 
words " my mother !" which in truth was all 
she could at that moment utter. 

" How shall I appear before that most 
wronged of women ?" replied he. " But 
justice commandeth it. We will to her on 
the instant." Then turning to the astonish- 
ed domestics, and pointing to the funeral 
hangings that still covered the walls, he add- 
ed, " Pluck down that mockery of woe. — 
Your mistress, for whom you have so long 
mourned, is still alive. Follow me, and you 
shall have sight of her." Thereupon, hold- 
ing of his daughter by the hand, he led the 
way to the library, followed by his wonder- 
ing household ; and throwing open the se- 
cret door in the old book-case, they proceed- 
ed through the passage into the adjoining 
chamber, where ; to their equal marvel and 
delight, they beheld their long lost lady. — 
Doubtless, she was the most amazed of all 
to see her husband coming to her with so 
great a company ; but how much more was 



she astonished to behold him kneel at heT 
feet, and declare how deeply he had wronged 
her, then proceed to state he cause ofher 
sufferings, and the manner in which he had 
discovered her innocence : and, in the page 
whosckgentleness had so won on her affecti- 
ons, gave her back the child she had ever 
since its birth believed had suffered a cruel 
death. Mother and daughter in a moment 
were so fondly clasped, and there was such 
a prodigal sweet show of smiles, of tears, 
of caresses, and the like exquisite affection- 
ateness, as did all hearts good to look on. 

" Blanche !" exclaimed the suppliant, " I 
know not what amends to make you for the 
unjust treatment you have had of me. Aa 
for myself, I have had such punishment of 
it already, nothing I might be sentenced to 
could come in any way nigh. Truly never 
was punishment so merited. For a phantom 
of mine own creating — that fantastic idol, 
reputation, I hurried myself into deeds that 
were far more completely its enemies than 
either the deed I suspected, or the know- 
ledge of it I so sought to prevent. My guilt 
is none the less because things have turned 
out as they are. I might have been the 
murderer of my own child — I have been a 
merciless tyrant to a faithful loving wife. — 
Your humiliation I kept secret ; but I would 
have my own a spectacle for the whole 
world. Thus publicly I crave your pardon. 
Banish me from your presence — do with me 
according to my desert ; but to my last hour 
I will hold your name in my heart as the 
gentlest, lovingest, and truest wife that ever 
suffered of an unworthy husband." 

" My lord !" replied the countess, as she 
raised him very fondly to her embrace, with 
tears in her eyes and deepest love in every 
look, " I beseech you no more of this. You 
have been the dupe of your false treacherous 
kinsman, who poisoned your ear with vil- 
lainous wicked perjuries, for his own base 
ends. I have suffered scarce any thing. I 
had always with me the conviction that your 
noble mind had been abused in some such 
manner ; and that the day would come when 
my innocence would be proved to you : — 
therefore I waited in patience till such happy 
time should arrive. Although my return to 
your affections I expected, never expected I 
sight of my dear child again : methinks the 
happiness of that should counterbalance all 
offences. My lord, I ever was your fond 
obedient wife ; this nothing can change. — 
And now, as there can be no hindrance to 
my leaving of this my prison, — seeing ycu 
have yourself made it known and are satis- 
fied of my perfect loyalty — if it so p.ease 
you, I will live differently ; but let me live 



244 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



as I may, if I exist not for the securing of 
your honor and happiness, be assured, in 
mine own opinion. I shall live exceeding ill." 

Shortly after, this fair model of womanly 
patience and every other womanly virtue, 
departed out of that chamber, supported on 
one side by a daughter, in all respects wor- 
thy of such a mother ; and on the other by 
a husband, saving some faults, worthy of 
such a wife — amid the honest boisterous joy 
of every member of the household. Mabel 
blessed the hour she thought of disguising 
herself in a left-off suit of young Lucy's, 
and friendless, penniless, and scarce able to 
proceed from long illness, trusted herself to 
the uncertain chance of fortune : but more 
fervently she blessed that exhaustion which 
led to her becoming an inmate with persons 
who, after exciting her powerfullest sympa- 
thies for months, till she loved them more 
dearly than her life, proved to be those who 
by nearness of blood and excellence of na- 
ture, were best entitled to hold such place in 
her affections. Here methinks 'tis but pro- 
per to add, that despite of her many anxie- 
ties and cares, she had oft thought and with 
exceeding gratefulness, of that honorable 
and gallant young gentleman, Sir Valentine, 
who had loved her, and desired to make her 
his wife, when she was a poor, despised 
foundling. But we must now leave her to 
the care of her good parents, whilst taking 
to matter more necessary here to be handled. 

Sir Piers Buzzard fled from the scene of 
his intended murder, cursing of his unlucky 
stars with all the fervor of a baffled villain, 
and scarce knowing where to go or what to 
be about. Truly he would have been glad 
enough now to have remained Master Buz- 
zard, roystering with Sir Nathaniel the cu- 
rate, Stripes the schoolmaster, and others 
of his boon companions he was wont to ca- 
rouse with at Stratford, before he set upon 
plotting against his kinsman's happiness, 
that it might cause him to die without issue, 
and so he profit by it — or even the life he 
led immediately afterwards when he gam- 
bled away his patrimony at the dice, and so 
being ready for any sort of service to retrieve 
his fortune, readily became an agent for my 
lord of Leicester, who never lacked such ser- 
vants, or proper employment to set them up- 
on. At last, he seemed in so desperate a 
Btrait, he thought it might have been better 
had he swallowed the poison his noble mas- 
ter had prepared as a reward for his ser- 
vices of a like sort upon others, the earl's 
enemies; for he had become a disgraced 
man, his character was known, and he knew 
not where to look for even so much as a bare 
eubsietence. 



In a mood of extreme desperation he came 
to a narrow causeway that led close by the 
mouth of a pit, — once worked for coal, but 
now filled with water, — of a famous depth 
and vastness. He saw an old man ap- 
proaching him, nearly bent double, as if by 
infirmity, and advancing slowly with the aid 
of his staff. When they came to within a 
few yards of each other, the old man looked 
up. In an instant such a change was ap- 
parent in him as surely had never before 
been witnessed. All traces of age or weak- 
ness in him vanished as if they had never 
been. He stood up firm and erect, with eyes 
flashing and a look as fierce as human aspect 
could express. 

" Mine enemy !" muttered he at last, be- 
tween his teeth, as his staff fell from his 
hand, and his sword leaped from its scab- 
bard. 

" John a Combe, get thee hence quietly, or 
thou shalt d@arly rue it !" said Sir Piers, 
drawing his weapon as quickly as he could. 

" Hence, sayest !" shouted the usurer ; — 
" have I lived for this hour to go at thy bid- 
ding ? Expect not so idle a thing. I have 
an account to settle with thee of long stand- 
ing ; — intolerable foul wrongs cry for re- 
venge — years of hopeless misery demand 
recompense. The time hath come at last. 
Prepare ! Hell yawns for thee, thou match- 
less damnable villain !" 

At this he leaped towards the man who 
had done him such unspeakable injury, and 
commenced with him most desperate battle. 
Sir Piers knew his enemy's cunning of fence 
of old, and took to his defence with such 
caution as the fear of death generally gives. 
He had hoped that age had weakened the 
usurer's arm, or loss of practice had lessen- 
ed his skill ; but never was hope so vain. — 
The old man, as he looked a moment since, 
plied his weapon with such briskness the 
eye could not follow its rapid movement : — 
and though his opponent was in the full vi- 
gor of manhood, and had of late years been 
in the constant practice of his weapon, John 
a Combe beat his defence aside as though 
he had been but a weak unskilful youth. — 
There seemed a supernatural fury in his at- 
tack. He breathed hard through his clenched 
teeth ; and gazed on his enemy so wild dead- 
ly a glance, it might of itself have appalled 
the stoutest heart. 

Sir Piers, for all he strove his best, pre- 
sently found himself wounded. At the 
sight of his trickling blood the usurer set up 
a scream of exultation that setteth all de- 
scription at defiance, and fell on his opponent 
with a fiercer hostility than ever, ever and 
anon reminding him of the treacherous fou. 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



845 



villainy he had perpetrated against his peace. 
Thrust followed thrust, and all craft in par- 
rying was of no help in avoiding blows so hot- 
ly put. One wound soon succeeded another, 
till the efforts of the knight for his own de- 
fence, from loss of blood and despair of heart, 
became more like those of a reeling drunk- 
ard than of aught else. Still the relentless 
weapon of his enemy pressed upon him — 
pierced his flesh, and drew such streams 
from his veins that his path became slippery 
with his own gore. In the end, his rapier 
fell from his relaxed grasp, and tottering 
with a faint supplication for mercy, he lost 
his footing, and fell with many wounds to the 
ground. 

" Mercy !" shouted John a Combe. " By 
God's passion thou shalt have the same mer- 
cy thou didst show to me." 

" Spare my life ! I beseech thee kill me 
not ! good John a Combe ! worthy Sir !" — 

" Away with thee, thou abhorred and in- 
famous villain !" cried the usurer ; and de- 
spite of the other's struggles and abject 
pleadings, he took him in his grasp as though 
he were a child, and with a giant's strength 
hurled him into the pit. There chanced to 
grow just below the brink of this fearful 
chasm, a bush, a branch of which in his de- 
scent the knight caught hold of, and there 
he hung clinging to it with so powerful a 
hold, as if the terribleness of his danger had 
given him new strength. Below him lay 
the unfathomable depths of the mine, cloth- 
ed with a thousand horrors, and nought pre- 
vented his being dashed to pieces against its 
rugged sides, and then swallowed in its 
pitchy waters, save the twig by which he 
swung above them. Jn this fearful situa- 
tion he made the abyss echo with his pierc- 
ing screams as he clung convulsively to his 
hold. John a Combe stretched himself on 
the ground, with his head leaning over the 
pit's mouth, and fierce as he was against his 
enemy, gazed in horror at beholding the ter- 
rible spectacle that met his eyes. Sir Piers 
looked up with an aspect so marked with 
terror and agony, that it savored more of a 
tortured demon than of a human being, his 
countenance was black and distorted fright- 
fully, his eyes starting from their sockets — 
and he grasped the branch of the bush with 
such terrible force, that the blood oozed out 
of his finger nails. But the struggle, though 
horribly violent, was exceeding brief. It was 
manifest he was monstrous loath to die, or he 
would not so desperately have sought to 
prolong his existence. 

Weak as he must have been from his re- 
cent wounds, and certain as was his destruc- 
tion, he struggled and screamed to the last 



moment in a manner awful to see or hear. 
As if to add to the extremeness of his de- 
spair, he felt the bough by which he hung 
giving way from the fierceness of his tugs. 
He saw it crack and peal — fibre after fibre 
snapt — and the tough green substance of 
the branch was gradually breaking away. 
John a Combe, unable to bear so dreadful a 
scene, stretched out his arm with the hope 
of saving his enemy, but at that moment the 
branch was severed from the bush, and he 
beheld the screaming villain turning over 
and over as he fell into the yawning chasm, 
till a loud splash, followed by a death-like si- 
ence, told him that all was at an end. 

And in the manner related in this pre- 
sent chapter, perished Master Buzzard and 
his man Saul — a pair of those pests of so 
ciety which occasionally are allowed to rn? 
their career of crime — to do their vile ims- 
chiefs unchecked — nay, in divers instance* 
to obtain honor and profit by effecting the 
misery of the noble and the good ; and thea 
when they fancy themselves to be most se- 
cure in their villainy, are overtaken ami 
overthrown, and, by shameful and terriWa 
ends, become monuments of avenging jus- 
tice. And may all such manner of men 
meet such fit reward, till the world becometh 
to be purged of their baseness, and the ever- 
lasting heart of nature rejoice in the posses- 
sion of a generous, loving, and honorable 
humanity. 

John a Combe sheathed his own weapon, 
and flung that of his slain enemy into the 
pit ; then kicking of his staff on one side aa 
a thing no longer necessary, he went his 
way. Truly, there was little in him of the 
infirm old man now, for he walked as proud 
and erect as he had done in his best days. 
It seemed, that in the fulfillment of the ven- 
geance he had so long and vainly sought, he 
had cast from him the load of suffering that 
had bowed him to tiie earth. The sense of 
intolerable wrong that had effected in him 
so fearful an alteration, appeared to have 
left him the instant his idea of justice had 
been accomplished, and with it had departed 
forever every sign of the change it had pro- 
duced. His miseries had died with the 
cause of them, and his truly benevolent na 
ture, that no wrong or suffering, however 
monstrous, could affect to any great extent, 
now returned to all its natural, healthy, and 
generous influence. 

It must not be imagined, that it is in any 
way unnatural for a gentle-hearted liberal- 
minded man, as was Master Combe in his 
early manhood, to become so fierce and un« 
relenting as hath been shown ; for it hath 
ever been found that such ardent trusting 



146 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



tre 
ha 



dispositions do readily leap to violent ex- 
tremes, at the sudden discovering of their 
ppiness destroyed by such villainous 
means as were used by Master Buzzard. A 
rankling wound givetb sore pains, and 
wounds that come of over-confidence in 
honorable appearances, and deepest truest 
love outraged and put to shame, rankle most, 
and are the longest healing. This breedeth 
and keepeth alive a sense of wrong, which 
feeds on hopes of fitting vengeance, till long- 
suffering giveth to it so great a strength as 
to make it the moving impulse of existence. 
Methinks it followeth as a natural conse- 
quence, that one so fiercely used should be 
no less fierce in his resentment. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Thus far, with rough, and all unable pen 

Our bending author hath pursued the story ; 
In a little room confining mighty men, 

Mangling by starts the full course of their 
glory. 
Small time, but in that small, most greatly lived, 
This Star of England. 

Shakspeare. 

Why do you dwell so long in clouds, 

And smother your best graces. 
'Tis time to cast away those shrouds, 
And clear your manly faces. 

Shirley. 
Now all is done ; bring home the bride again, 

Bring home the triumph of our victory ; 
Bring home with you the glory of her gain, 

With joyance bring her and with jollity. 

Never had man more joyous day than this, 

Whom Heaven would heap with bliss. 

Spenser. 

"I prat you tell me, Master Spenser, 
your honest opinion of this my play," said 
William Shakspeare to his friend, after as 
it seemed, reading a manuscript he had be- 
fore him, as they sat together in his lodging. 

" Truly, I scarce know what to say of it, 
Master Shakspeare,'" replied the other, with 
a look of as sincere delight as ever was seen. 
" Nothing I have met with either among 
ancient or modern writers cometh at all nigh 
to it for truth, beauty, or sweetness. De- 
spite the sad unhappy deaths of these ex- 
quisite young lovers, Romeo and Juliet will 
live as long as the language, out of which 
you have carved their imperishable story, 
shall endure." 

" Indeed, I am infinitely pleased to hear 
you say so," observed his companion ; "your 
acknowledged admirable taste and judgment 
making you the fittest person whose opinion 



should have greatest weight with me, anA 
your excellent friendliness creating in me a 
confidence you would give me your advice, 
saw you anything amiss in it." 

" Believe me, it hath such abundance of 
merit as to put all faultiness out of the 
case," answered Edmund Spenser ; ," I am 
enraptured beyond expression that I left Ire- 
land at this time. I would not have missed 
the hearing of so choice a performance for 
a king's ransom. Oh, I would the noble Sir 
Philip Sydney were living at this time, what 
extreme pleasure he would have taken in its 
manifold rare beauties ! But I will shortly 
find means of making you known to a gal- 
lant gentleman of my acquaintance, who I 
take to be the only man in the world capa- 
ble of filling the void left by my glorious de- 
parted friend." 

" Be assured, I should be right glad of his 
countenance, if he is so worthy a person," 
observed the young player. 

" He is no other than Sir Walter Raleigh," 
replied his celebrated brother poet. " A3 
ripe a scholar as was Sir Philip, and no less 
perfect a gentleman. But how came you to 
hit on so truly charming a subject, and work 
it out with such inimitable delicacy ? Have 
you writ more such plays ?" 

" I will tell you," answered William 
Shakspeare ;" for sometime past, I have 
taken to the altering of plays of divers play- 
writers, who, finding any of their perfor- 
mances in which I had a hand, went better 
with the public than those I had net meddled 
with, took care to employ me sufficiently. 
With some I wrote conjointly, and the plays 
of others I amended ; but all that I gained by 
so doing, the affair having in every case been 
kept secret betwixt us — was the denial 1 
had done them any such service, with no 
lack of slander behind my back. This put 
me on attempting something on mine own 
account; nevertheless, 'in consequence of 
the intrigues and enmity of my rivals, as I 
believe, though I have already produced 
more than one play of my own writing 
solely, I have not met that success which 
would be most to my liking. Certes, none 
of my performnnces have failed ; nor have 
they been as yet in any notable admiration 
of the public." 

" I would wager my life, that is the effect 
of sheer malice of those paltry play-writers," 
observed his companion, warmly. 

" So I have been told," answered the 
other ; "I have therefore been advised to 
act with some cautiousness. Meeting with 
the story of Romec anu Juliet, 1 saw its ca- 
pability for the sts,??. aiui have written it as 
you see. This I •'s-eos w rwve read pri- 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



247 



fately to the company, every one of whom, 
«ave the manager, I believe to be my true 
friends ; and though old Burbage is chur- 
lish, I do not think him capable of caballing 
against me with my rivals. Afterwards it 
shall be got up with a great secresy as to 
the author, and performed without their 
having suspicion of its relationship to one 
they manifestly mislike so hugely. I am 
apt to think, from what you have so hand- 
somely expressed, it cannot fail of succeed- 
ing ; and if I chance to meet such good for- 
tune, methinks I shall have famous cause 
for laughing at the whole herd of play-writers 
from that time forth." 

" Ay, that shall you, Master Shakspeare," 
6aid his gentle friend; "and, believe me, I 
am most earnest to aid you with what help 
I may, that they shall afford a sufficiency of 
sport. I will now take my leave of you 
for a brief space, having had such delectable 
cdnviction of your resources in expressing 
the beautiful and the true, that all my life 
long I shall have but one longing, which 
must needs be, that in after ages, the 
name of Edmund Spenser may be found in 
honorable companionship with that of his 
estimable rare brother in love, and associate 
in letters, William Shakspeare." 

To this handsome speech, the young 
player replied in a like admirable manner, 
and these bright planets of their age sepa- 
rated in perfect mutual appreciation of each 
Other's unrivalled genius. Nor could this 
be in any way extraordinary, for in many 
things were they marvellously alike. Each 
was possessed of that greatness of soul, 
which payeth ready homage to excellence 
wherever it may be found. The mind of 
either was embued with that lofty spirit, 
which emanates from the universal wisdom ; 
and in their several hearts were those feel- 
ings of gentleness, of purity, of sweetness — 
of love of truth, and sympathy for wrong, 
which can exist only in such as are selected 
by nature to be the chief priests of her im- 
macular temple. William Shakspeare had 
more studied the humors of men — Edmund 
Spenser had acquired greater acquaintance 
into the learning of books. The latter 
sought to purify mankind of unmanly im- 
pulses, by bringing before their eyes the 
noblest achievements of the most romantic 
chivalry ; but the other was disposed to show 
the lights and shadows of the actual world 
— the virtues, merits, vices and follies that 
do commonly make for themselves homes, in 
• very age and condition — and, embodying 
in their portraiture so palpable and imperish- 
able a philosophy, that they shall afford most 
16 



estimable teaching unto all persons, unto thff 
uttermost end of time. 

I pass over the effect produced on his 
brother players, by the reading of that honey- 
sweet play ; suffice it, that every one took 
to the studying of his part with such boun- 
tiful good will as he had never known be- 
fore. Even the elder Burbage hoped great 
things of it ; and, as some symptom his 
churlishness was giving way before an in- 
creasing knowledge of his young associate's 
manifold excellences of heart and mind, he 
insisted on drawing him out of his obscurity 
as a player, and pressed him to take the 
principal part in his new play. William 
Shakspeare gladly accepted this offer ; for 
it was a character written after his own 
heart, and, to a great extent, the expression 
of his own feelings. The full strength of 
the company was employed in the perform- 
ance ; and every precaution taken to keep 
the authorship a secret. 

The young player was in such excitement 
during the whole time it was in rehearsal, 
as he had never known on any other occa- 
sion. He knew that the life of hardship he 
had led for some years past, could only have 
an ending through the complete success of 
this, his recent and favorite production — he 
saw that there was no way to attain the 
greatness his ambition aimed at, save by 
giving to the world something of his which 
should be stamped by the seal of universal ap- 
proval ; and he felt that a failure was likely 
to give so rude a check to his proud aspir- 
ings, that it would go nigh to deprive him 
of that confidence in his own resources, 
without which no truly great work can be 
produced. In brief, he was well aware that 
his every hope depended on the manner in 
which his Romeo and Juliet should be re- 
ceived of the audience. He studied his part 
very carefully, and not without the belief, 
an imperfect personation of the lover might 
mar the whole performance ; but the praises 
he received at the rehearsals assured him, 
and the more perfect he got, the more com- 
pletely he abandoned himself to the true 
spirit of the character. 

The day of the first representation of 
Romeo and Juliet arrived. In a state of 
monstrous anxiousness he was leaving his 
lodgings to proceed to the playhouse, when, 
who should he meet but his old tried friend 
John a Combe. Not a sign had he of the 
miserable crabbed usurer ; but in dress and 
manner looked to be as true a gentleman as 
might be met with anywhere. He had c^-ae 
expressly to look after the young player, 
believing he was not advancing his fortunes 



248 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



no rapidly as he desired. After most hearty 
greeting, the two bent their steps towards 
the Globe, at the Bankside, Master Combe 
relating all Ihe news at Stratford, his own 
recent adventures, and the state in which he 
had left his companion's wife and children, 
parents and friends, — whereof the greater 
portion was exceeding comfortable to the 
hearer ; and William Shakspeare in his turn 
acquainting the other with all he had been 
about of late, and the to him, important ex- 
periment he was now on the eve of trying ; 
whereupon John a Combe swore very lustily 
he would not take bit or sup till this same 
play he had seen, and so encouraged the 
young player with his prophecies and praises, 
that he arrived at the playhouse in as mar- 
vellous pleasant content as though success 
was certain. 

When he entered upon the stage, a scene 
disclosed itself, which more than any other 
thing was like to fill him with a proper en- 
couragement. As far aa his experience 
went, the audience used to be chiefly com- 
posed of idlers of different classes, with oc- 
casionally some person of note and credit 
drawn to the place by curiosity. The play- 
house was rarely full in any part ; for the 
sports of the bear-garden seemed much more 
approved of those persons of chiefest fashion 
and infi uence, who were wont to draw crowds 
after them wherever they go — but now, 
when his eye fell upon the space where the 
groundlings stand, it met a complete den of 
faces, crammed to very suffocation. The 
rooms above were filled with so brilliant a 
company as he had never seen before, com- 
posed principally of the noblest ladies and 
gallants of the court — and up to the topmost 
scaffold, every place was as full of specta- 
tors as close pressing could make it. This 
was in a great measure the result of the 
friendly exertions of the gentle Edmund 
Spenaer, who so moved his friend Sir Walter 
Raleigh — then the Queen's especial favorite 
— with the infinite merits of the new play, 
and the surpassing genius of its author, that 
he presently took in its success such interest 
as though it had been his own, and prevailed 
on all his acquaintances to accompany him 
to witness its representation. Where the 
Queen's favorite went there hurried, of 
course, the courtiers ; and where the court 
came, all persons of fashion were sure to 
follow — and where fashion appeared, all who 
were desirous of some claim to respectability, 
were right eager to make themselves of the 
party. It followeth from these premises, 
that Romeo and Juliet was like to have as 
fair and full- an audience as playhouse ever 
beld. 



The young player could not help seeing, 
among the most prominent of the ground- 
lings, Greene, Marlowe, Lodge and their 
companions, seemingly in a monstrous curi- 
ousness to see a play that none could name 
the author of. He saw these his envious- 
rivals, of whose readiness to work him injury 
he had had sufficient experience ; but his 
confidence gained by the sight of them. 
With such an audience before him, he felt 
that nothing was to be feared ; and he en- 
tered into the playing of his part with a spirit 
which had never till then been seen upon the 
stage. It is scarce possible any could have 
been so fit to have personated the passionate 
lover, as he who drew him in such imperish- 
able rosy coloring. William Shakspeare 
was possessed of all the graces of early 
manhood, an intellectual handsome counte- 
nance, that could take on itself the most elo- 
quent enamored expression with exceeding 
readiness, and a figure, which for manly 
symmetry of limb and graceful motion in 
exercise, was not to be excelled search 
where you would ; added to which, his voice 
was so rich, mellow, and sweet, and he de- 
livered the exquisite poetry of his sentences 
with such ravishing expression, that with 
music so delicate and new, no ear had hith- 
erto held acquaintance. 

The young player soon forgot audience, 
rivals, and all other present matters, in the 
intensity with which he entered into the 
feelings he was expected to feign. Now it 
seemed he had before him the gentle fair 
foundling, whose exquisite beauty had won 
the secret adoration of his boyhood — anon, 
the yeoman's blooming daughter appeared 
in the most seductive charms of loving 
womanhood, to rouse in him the uncontrol- 
lable passionate impulses of his youth — and, 
lastly, the trusting, self-denying, noble-heart- 
ed Mistress D'Avenant, enriched with those 
sterling gifts of mind that afford a woman 
her truest title to divinity, seemed ready to 
pour out the treasures of her bountiful sweet 
affections, as if to call on him to meet her 
marvellous bounty by an immediate out- 
pouring of every thought, feeling, hope and 
sentiment, that existed in his nature, as the 
proper inheritance of manhood . With such 
deep moving stimuli, his exertions may in 
some measure be imagined. As for the 
effects they produced, it looked as if every 
spectator was spell-bound. One would be 
seen in the pauses of the playing, gazing on 
another with such strange delight and mar- 
velling as he could not find words to express-. 
All the females from the noblest to the hum- 
blest, were so stirred by the thrilling lan- 
guage and the passionate manner of the 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



249 



Toung lover, that their very hearts were 
bound up in the story, and ere he had half 
played his part he had both old and young at 
his devotion. Such unanimous hearty plaud- 
its had never before resounded in a play- 
house ; but proud as he felt at them, he was 
not a whit less pleased at the honest prodi- 
gal pleasure of his old schoolfellows and 
brother players, with his worthy friend John 
a Combe, who every time he came off the 
stage, rivalled each other in their commen- 
dations, and sent him on again with fresh 
assurances and renewed happy spirits. 

In brief, the whole performance was a 
triumph from the commencement ; and so 
brilliant a one, perchance no player or play- 
writer had ever enjoyed. His envious rivals 
were forced into the expression of the gen- 
eral voice ; doubtless much against their 
several wills, but as they believed his share 
in the popular approbation proceeded solely 
from his skill in playing, they beheld not in 
it any particular injury to themselves. As 
for the play, never were men put in so 
strange a state by one. They saw how vain 
must be any effort of theirs to mar its success, 
and kept perplexing of themselves with fears 
of the author's topping them in the public 
eye ; and wondering more and more who he 
was. At the end the curtain fell amid such 
an uproar of shouts and plaudits, as is be- 
vond conceiving. Every man seemed to 
triumph in the triumph of the play ; and 
every woman regarded the author's success 
as the cause of true love and honorable de- 
votedness. 

William Shakspeare, thoroughly exhausted 
by his wondrous exertions, was receiving the 
earnest congratulations of his friends in a 
chamber of the playhouse, when the manager 
rushed towards him, and pulling him by the 
arm, implored him to come with him on the 
instant, before the curtain, for the audience 
were making of such a terrible din and 
racket he expected he should have the whole 
house pulled about his ears, if the young 
player did not speed to pacify them. At this 
the latter made what haste he could — for, in 
truth, he heard such a disturbance as was 
enough to frighten the boldest manager that 
lived. As he came nearer the stage, he could, 
amid the universal uproar, plain enough dis- 
tinguish his own name shouted by hundreds 
of voices. This was gratifying enough — 
but as soon as he made his appearance, the 
plaudits and shoutings recommenced with 
tenfold fury. The ladies and gallants stood 
up in the rooms ; the former waving of their 
fair white handkerchiefs, and the latter clapp- 
ing of their hands and crying out all manner 



of praises. As for the groundlings and those 
in the scaffolds, such a storm of shouts and 
cries, and other boisterous noises, came from 
them as gave to no one the chance of a hear- 
ing- Some few appeared aware of who ^« 
the author, but by far the majority were ft.s 
ignorant of it as the play-writers. The 
young player acknowledged the honor that 
was done him by the approval of the audi- 
ence, with a graceful courtesy that la'-.w^d 
not a sufficiency of admirers ; and so "e 
waited to know their will, as he could not 
at first make out, among the confusion ot 
sounds, what it was they were crying for. 
At last, one of famous strong lungs nW« 
himself heard above the rest by putting of thy 
question, " Who wrote this play ?" Where- 
upon the young player advanced nearer to 
the audience, which they taking as a sign 
he was about to tell them what they so much 
desired to know, and there was a silence in 
a presently. His rivals listened with all 
their ears. 

" An' it please you, I wrote this play," 
replied William Shakspeare. In an instant 
the storm burst out more furiously than 
ever. Hats and handkerchiefs were waved 
by every hand, and a chorus of cheers and 
praises broke forth from every throat. The 
chief nobles and gallants left their company 
and got upon the stage, thronging publicly 
around the young player, to give him their 
countenance and commendation ; and his 
gentle friend, Edmund Spenser, who ap- 
peared to enjoy his success as though it had 
been his own, made known to him as many 
as were of his acquaintance. William 
Shakspeare felt that all his hardships and 
sufferings were more than recompensed by 
the proud triumph of that hour. As for his 
envious rivals, never men wore such black 
visages as did they at hearing the young 
player acknowledge himself the author of 
that choice performance ; and they slunk 
out of the playhouse as quickly as they 
could. It may here be necessary to say of 
them, that Greene died of great poverty, 
brought on by his own notorious ill living, 
after finishing his last " Repentance" — 
wherein, with a sufficiency of canting la- 
mentation of his own vileness, he stoutly 
abused his quondam friends, and secretly 
slandered his fortunate rival ; that his asso- 
ciate, the infamous Cutting Ball — whose 
sister he kept as his leman — was hanged at 
Tyburn for his many crimes and wicked dis- 
honest courses — a fate he richly merited ; 
and his chief companion, Kit Marlowe, in 
seeking to stab a dissolute associate with 
whom he had quarrelled at tables in a low 



sso 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



tavern at Deptford, was miserably slain by 
him on the spot, with a stroke of a dagger 
thrust through his eye. Of the others, 
though they lived and produced plays, little 
is known to their credit, either of them or 
their publications. 

But the success of William Shakspeare's 
admirable performance appeared to increase 
every day it was repeated ; crowds came to 
see it, who went away so charmed that it 
presently became the talk both of the court 
and of the citizens. This can be in no way 
surprising, when the monstrous difference 
is considered, that lies betwixt the graceful 
perfections of Romeo and Juliet, and the 
poor contemptible bombast of the Jeronimos, 
the Tamberlaine the Greats, and Orlando 
Furiosos, which had previously been favo- 
rites of the public. The appearance of a play 
in every way so amazingly superior, and so 
filled with the sweet graces of natural beauty, 
worked a prodigious change in favor of the 
playhouse. It shortly became the most po- 
pular as well as the most fashionable enter- 
tainment of the time ; and the players, from 
being looked upon as little better than vaga- 
bonds, were now resorted to by the best 
company in the land. The throngs which 
t be performance of Romeo and Juliet brought 
to the Globe, completely obliterated the ma- 
nager's prejudices against the author; and 
wnen in consequence of the favor in which 
that production was viewed in high places, 
it was ordered that the company should be 
styled the Queen's Players, old Burbage, to 
show his gratitude to the one who had been 
of such important service, made him a 
shareholder in the property of the company. 
By this measure the young player found 
himself in the possession of a fair provision, 
and saw that nought was wanting but pro- 
per exertion on his part to lead him to for- 
tune and greatness. 

As soon as his circumstances allowed, he 
resolved on paying a visit to his native 
Stratford, fondly longing to see his dear 
children, and to make such arrangements 
for his parents, as would place them beyond 
the reach of those bitter necessities they had 
had such prolonged experience of ; and tak- 
ing John a Combe to be of his company, they 
started on their journey. The day before 
their departure from London, the latter in 
passing along one of the streets with his 
friend, was attracted by the appearance of a 
ragged filthy-looking woman, in a state of 
evident drunkenness, dragged along by a 
party of the city watch, who loaded her with 
such abuse, as if she had been the most no- 
torious vile creature that lived, which, in 



honest truth, she went nign to be. Master 
Combe suddenly left his companion, and 
went close up to her, regarding her with a 
searching scrutiny ; but directly she cast 
eyes on him she screamed fearfully, and 
tried to hide her face with her hands. 

" 'Tis she !" exclaimed her former lover, 
and left her, with an aspect of mingled 
horror and disgust. This woman was the 
pretended Lady Arabella Comfit,- the leman 
of Master Buzzard, who was so conspicu- 
ous an agent in the vile attempt upon the 
foundling; and having gone through all 
the grades of infamy, was now in the hands 
of justice, about to answer for a whole ca- 
talogue of her wicked base offences. 

William Shakspeare travelled very dif-, 
ferently at this time from the manner in 
which he made his journey to London, for 
he rode a good horse, as did also his com- 
panion, whom he amused famously on the 
road by recounting his adventures and mis- 
haps in his former travels. The country 
now was in no way like what it was. The 
poor Queen of Scots had long ceased to be 
made an engine for harassing the people 
with vain alarms ; and wherever the travel- 
lers went,- the inhabitants seemed mad with 
the recent triumph of England over the 
Spanish Armada. Bonfires were lit in every 
town, and divers of the worthy country 
people, if they might have had their will, 
would have made logs of such " wretched 
villainous papists" as were nighest at. hand. 
Little of note occurred on the journey. The 
young player passed but one night at Ox- 
ford ; but doubtless that visit was infinitely 
to his contentation. They were nearing 
their destination, when they approached a 
cavalcade of horsemen, who seemed going 
the same road. Among them William 
Shakspeare quickly recognized his former 
venerable benevolent patron, Sir Marma- 
duke de Largesse, and putting spurs to his 
steed he was soon by his side. 

Great was the gratification on both sides 
at this meeting ; the old knight acquainting 
his young companion, that after arming his 
vassals, and marching at their head to help 
guard the coast during the threatened inva- 
sion, he had disbanded them, and having 
then proceeded to court to attend upon her 
Highness, he was returning home, first in- 
tending to call in his way on an old ac- 
quaintance and brother-in-arms, who was 
about giving a grand tournament. 

" Truly I should be glad to see it," re- 
plied the other. 

" Well, wend with me to my Lord de la 
Pole's, and you shall have as good a sight a 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



251 



it as any," r*A Sir Muormaduke ; " besides 
which you shall behold h\a fair daughter, the 
Lady Mabel, whose history is so marvellous 
strange." 

" De la Pole ! — Mabel !" exclaimed Wil- 
liam Shakspeare, in excetding astonish- 
ment. " Surely that cannot oe the exquisite 
sweet creature brought up &a a foundling by 
Dame Lucy." 

" The same, Master Shakspeaie, the 
same, o' my life ! I know the whole story," 
answered the old knight. 

" Never heard I anything so wondrous," 
6aid the young player. " As I live, Sir 
Marmaduke, that very Mabel travelled with 
me, disguised in male apparel, from close 
upon Stratford to the neighborhood of the 
Lord Urban's mansion. Despite her gar- 
ments, I recognized her ere I had been long 
in her company ; but fancying she might 
feel some disquietude if she thought I knew 
who she was, I treated her for what she ap- 
peared to be. She gave me to understand 
she fled from some villainous intentions : 
and believing, when my Lord de la Pole 
benevolently took charge of her, taking her 
to be what she represented, that there was 
no likelihood of her being so safely disposed 
of elsewhere, I took my leave of her ; but I 
have often thought of the gentle, graceful 



intend making any acquainted with the 
proper cause of it, till the whole company 
are assembled." 

" I have had excellent evidence for know- 
ing Sir Valentine loved the Lady Mabel," 
observed William Shakspeare, " and I doubt 
not at all his refusals of marriage were cre- 
ated from his affection being engrossed by 
the humble beauty at Charlcote whom lie 
must long have lost sight of." 

" I hope it may be the case with all my 
heart !" exclaimed his companion earnestly, 
" for doubt I not — to say nought of his own 
merit, which methinks should make its way 
anywhere — my old friendship with the earl 
will give no little help to my nephew's 
successful wooing of his daughter : and I 
should be right glad to see him happy, for 
he hath seemed in very woful case a long 
time past." 

" Think you he will be at the tournament ?" 
inquired the other. 

" Surely, he cannot fail," replied Sir Mar- 
maduke. ' He taketh great delight in such 
things ; and it is scarce possible he should ■ 
not have intelligence of it. Nevertheless, if 
I find him not amongst the company, I will 
use all despatch in making him acquainted 
with whatsoever is most desirous he should 
know." Here the conversation was inter- 



creature since then, and this present moment I rupted by the approach of Master Peregrine 
am journeying to my lord's mansion to make and Sir Johan, to whom John a Combe, in 



inquiries concerning of her fortunes 

At this Sir Marmaduke marvelled greatly, 
and not without a famous admiration of the 
honorableness of his young friend's deli- 
cate behavior to the distressed damsel. 
After some further talk on the subject, he 
spoke of his nephews : Sir Reginald had 
lately married ; and Sir Valentine, after 
distinguished himself very notably, had pro- 
mised in a few months to visit his kinsman. 

" He might have had the most covetable 
matches in the kingdom," added the old 
knight ; h but he seemeth in no way in- 
clined to marry. Methinks the death of his 
noble friend, Sir Philip Sydney, hath so 
grieved him, he cannot be got to care to 
love any other person." 

" Doth he know of this change in the 
foundling's fortunes ?" inquired the young 
player. 

" Not a word," replied the knight; " for I 
received not advice of it myself till I was on 
the point of starting from London — he being 
then with the court at Greenwich ; and from 
what I have learned — ray intelligence coming 
from no other than the happy father — that 
though the earl hath sent, far and near, in- 
vitations to his entertainment, he doth not 



the meanwhile, had been relating his young 
friend's notable success. 

"This cometh entirely of those proper 
studies we pursued together," gravely ob- 
served the chaplain, after a sufficiency of 
congratulation : — " be assured, young sir, 
there is nought so like to lead to greatness 
as deep study of the classic writings of the 
ancient Greeks and Romans." 

" Ancient pudding !" exclaimed the anti- 
quary, in a monstrous indignation. " Dost 
claim my admirable rare scholar of me on 
such weak pretences? Hast forgot the 
many hours I have passed in Sir Marma- 
duke's library teaching of this my pupil ? 
Ancient Greeks ! Ancient fig's ends ! I 
tell thee all his fame proceeded from my ex- 
treme pains-taking he should be familiar 
with every one of those sweet repositories 
of delectable knowledge, the old ballads." 

" Old fiddlesticks !" retorted Sir Johan, 
less inclined now than ever to lose the repu- 
tation of having instructed so worthy a 
scholar ; and there was like to be again very 
desperate war between them on this point, 
had not the young player made such ac- 
knowledgments as went far towards the 
satisfying of both parties. F«r ail which 



252 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



to the day of theii deaths, each considered 
Master Shakspeare' s infinite genius came 
exclusively of his teaching. 

Before the latter could get sight of the 
Lady Mabel, she and her noble parents had 
been informed of his arrival by Sir Marma- 
duke, who took especial care aught he knew 
to his advantage should have a faithful in- 
telligencer ; and there could scarce be any 
persons who could so perfectly appreciate 
the conduct of his young friend as those to 
whom he spoke. The youthful student the 
poor foundling had beheld with such interest 
asleep under the tree, and who had rescued her 
so gailantly from the power of the licentious 
lord and his villainous assistants, and had 
moreover behaved so brotherly during her 
painful travelling after her escape from 
Charlcote, was sure to be received by the 
high-born lady, with sincere welcome and 
gratitude. Indeed, the earl and the count- 
ess did vie with her how they could best 
show their respect to one to whom they 
considered themselves so deeply indebted ; 
but her particular delight seemed to be to 
have him with her on every occasion, to 
hear him discourse, which on all matters he 
could right eloquently, but if there was one 
subject she preferred to others, doubt not it 
was his former companion and excellent gal- 
'iant friend, Sir Valentine. 

In honest truth, her thoughts had been 
in that channel far . more than ever, 
since the discovery of her parentage ; and, 
with a woman's gratitude, she longed for 
nothing so much as some opportunity to tes- 
tify to the generous-hearted gentleman who 
would have taken her to wife though she 
was of such humble poor condition, that she 
lacked not a proper estimation of his true 
affection. Whilst preparations were going 
on for a grand chivalrous entertainment 
which the earl had decided on giving for 
purposes of his own, a little plot was got up 
by him and others — of whom was William 
Shakspeare — to assist in carrying it on to 
the conclusion all desired. On the day ap- 
pointed, the principal nobles and gallants in 
the land came thronging to the lists, and a 
crowd of. curious spectators, from far and 
near, assembled in the great park, to see them 
engage. Proper buildings had been there 
erected ; and in a commanding situation the 
Countess and her daughter sat surrounded 
by the chief nobility of the country, to wit- 
ness the proceedings. Among the knights 
present the Lady Mabel looked in vain for the 
one she most desired to see. She heard their 
titles, she beheld their cognizances, but all 
were strange to her ; and she looked on with 



a careless eye, and took no sort of interest in 
the scene. Her attention was now almost 
entirely devoted to Master Shakspeare, whom 
she had made sit close behind her. All at 
once a great shouting arose from the crowd, 
which made her look again upon the con- 
tending knights, and then she beheld one 
whom she had not seen before, and whose 
title she had not heard. He had entered the 
barriers when she was most deeply engaged 
in conversing with the young player, having 
arrived late. He was clothed in a complete 
suit of black armor, with his visor down. 
Noting that this knight overthrew all who 
opposed him, she asked who he was ; there- 
upon Master Shakspeare gave her a very 
moving history of him, stating that he was 
called the black knight, and was an exceed- 
ing mysterious personage, of whom none 
knew anything, whereof the consequence 
was no person was so much talked of. 
Among other things, he said he had heard 
his aspect was so marvellously ill-favored 
that he rarely made it visible. 

Nevertheless, of that press of chivalry 
none showed such skill as the Black Knight 
— ill favored as he might be — and he was 
publicly declared to be the chiefest of all 
for knightly accomplishments. When the 
tourney was over, the Lady Mabel left her 
seat, exceedingly dull at heart, her lover 
had not fulfilled her expectations by being 
one of the actors in the scene she had just 
witnessed. She was in one of the principal 
chambers in the mansion, in the midst of a 
most courtly company, in her attire rival- 
ling the splendor of the noblest dame pre- 
sent, and in her beauty far surpassing the 
loveliest. The young player was beside 
her, seeming to be very intent on affording 
her some sort of amusement, by telling her 
strange tales of the Black Knight in which 
it was difficult to say whether the horrible 
or the ludicrous most predominated. Whilst 
he kept her attention engaged, there ap- 
proached towards them the Very object of 
their conversation, with his vizor up, accom- 
panied by the Earl and Sir Marmaduke. He 
stopped suddenly as he caught sight of her, 
and gazed in rapt astonishment on her ex- 
quisite fair countenance and majestic figure. 

" Sir Knight," said the Earl, after he had 
allowed the other, as he thought, to marvel 
to an absolute sufficiency, " this is my daugh- 
ter of whom I spoke. It grieveth me to the 
heart I cannot, after all I have said, get you 
to entertain the idea of becoming my son-in- 
law." 

" Mabel !" rapturously exclaimed the 
Black Knight, and so audibly, the *ady 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



251 



torned her gaze upon him on the instant. 
The voice stirred her deepest affections ; 
a34 one glance sufficed to call them into 
fuller action. The knight was Sir Valen- 
tine, who had worn black armor since the 
death of his lamented and valiant friend Sir 
Philip Sydney. All traces of the Earl's suf- 
fering had vanished, under the gladdening 
influence of those excellent ministers of 
good, whom he had treated with such mon- 
strous injustice; and their happiness was 
now his sole care. He took care to make 
public the wrong he had done, that his story 
might be a lesson unto all such mere slaves 
of reputation, and their merit might be ex- 
amples to every honest wife and affectionate 
daughter, as long as the world lasted. His 
efforts were crowned with a deserved suc- 
cess. The Countess, who was hailed by 
her friends as one risen from the grave, was 
in such content as she had never till then 
had knowledge of; and her daughter, in the 
fond devotion of Sir Valentine, enjoyed such 
extreme happiness, as was the fittest recom- 
pence for her many painful troubles. Of 
the spectators, not one so much enjoyed the 
spectacle of her felicity, as he whose boyish 
dreams she had made so radiant with her 
early beauty. He had entered heart and 
enul into the little plot that had been design- 
ed for the purpose of bringing the lovers to- 
gether; and witnessed the mutual delicious 
pleasure of their recognition, with a heart as 
pregnant with true enjoyment as had either. 

Having promised every one of that now 
happy family, to their united earnest pressing, 
he would be present at the nuptials of Sir 
Valentine and Lady Mabel, he once more 
pursued his journey, accompanied by the 
same party with whom he had visited the 
Earl's mansion. As he drew nigh the fami- 
liar places bordering on Stratford, every spot 
called up a thousand delightful associations. 
Far different were his feelings at approach- 
ing his native town, to what they had been 
when he last left it. Then, desperate unhap- 
piness had banished him, friendless and ob- 
scure — but now, he returned full of pleasure 
in the present, and hope in the future, lack- 
ing neither store of friends, nor sufficiency of 
reputation ; and having no sort of anxieties, 
save for those from whom he had been so 
long parted. Whilst his mind was filled 
with sweet loving thoughts of his dear chil- 
dren and parents, kindred and friends, he was 
accosted by a voice he could not fail of re- 
cognizing in a moment. 

" Said I not so, my lambkin ?" exclaimed 
Nurse Cicely, seeming to be overjoyed at 
beholding her foster-child returning to his 



native town in so gallant a fashion. She 
stood in the very same spot where he had 
last seen her and he now remembered the 
fair hopes she had given him when he was 
in so despairing a humor. He gladly stop* 
ped and greeted the old affectionate creature 
in his kindest manner, and bid her be of good 
heart, for he would visit her anon, which put 
her in such garrulous contentation, she went 
off to her gossips, and would talk of nothing 
else. Everything seemed just as he had left 
it, and his old acquaintances appeared in no 
way altered, — save only Skinny Dickon, 
who had grown to be as stout a man as any 
m the town. As he rode by, there stood 
the Widow Pippins, leaning over the rail in 
her gallery, laughing with as notable a 
heartiness as ever, at no other than that still 
most miserable of constables, Oliver Dumps, 
upon whom it looked monstrous like as if 
she had been playing some of her jests. — 
There sat the two merry wives, Mistress 
Dowlas and Mistress Malmsey, gossipping 
at the latter' s casement, whilst the worthy 
aldermen, their husbands, were standing at 
their several doors, shouting little matters of 
news across the street ; there was Mother 
Flytrap and Dame Lambswool, Maud and 
her partner Humphrey, gaping with open 
mouths at the approaching cavalcade till the 
latter, recognizing his old master's son, 
threw up his cap in the air, and shouted hia 
congratulations in so hearty a manner, the 
whole town were soon made acquainted 
with their visitor. All this was exquisite 
to William Shakspeare ; but when, on en- 
tering Henly Street, he beheld his honest 
old father in his homely jerkin, standing at 
the door looking to see what made that sud- 
den outcry, his feelings became so powerful, 
he put spurs to his horse, and rode up to the 
door as rapidly as he could ; but the joyful 
cry to his dame of John Shakspeare, as he 
beheld his son, brought out the fond mother 
in a marvellous haste, and the young player 
was scarce free of his saddle when he found 
her loving arms around his neck. A few 
minutes after, his happiness was completed 
by holding in his tender embraces first one 
and then the other of his dear children ; and 
this he did in such a manner as seemed to 
show he knew not which of the three he 
ought to love the most. 

" Ah !" exclaimed the youthful father, in 
an impassioned burst of tenderness, as he 
pressed them in his fond embrace, — the 
others, with delighted aspects, noting hia 
famous enjoyment, " Such sweet happiness 
never tasted I all my days ! Who would 
not toil — who would not suffer — who would 



254 



THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 



not school his affections unto virtuous 
honest purposes through the bitterest 
pangs humanity hath knowledge of, to 
crown his labor with pleasure of so 
sterling a sort ? — Truly, methinks such 



glad occasions prove with the choicest 
of argument, all else but goodness is 
utter folly, • and as absolute desperate 
ignorance as ever existed." 



TflE END. 



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